Picturesque

old wooden house

To Autumn – John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
   Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
   With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
   And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
      To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
   With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
      For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
   Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
   Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
   Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
      Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
   Steady thy laden head across a brook;
   Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
      Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

petting a cat

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?
   Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
   And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
   Among the river sallows, borne aloft
      Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
   Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
   The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
      And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

old wooden barn with rusted car

Dream, Grow, Knit

Once upon a time I taught myself to knit.

I knew so little them, and had such room to grow,

And as I looped each stitch I began to dream.

 

At first the things I knit were not the “stuff of dreams,”

But still I soldiered on as row and round I knit,

And as I practiced more my skills began to grow.

 

Now as I add each stitch my love for knitting grows.

My hands become so wise, and I knit in a dream.

I love to grow and dream: this is why I knit.

 

Knitting helps me grow into my dreams.

knitting

Butterfly

We were once all worms alike,

Crawling on the ground,

Eating dirt and leaves.

 

Until one day you had to leave:

You could no longer live alike.

You left us on the ground.

 

Your feet no longer touch the ground,

You’ve wings like jeweled leaves:

To us you are unlike.

 

Like you we shall escape the ground and fly among the leaves.

Storm

Rain comes inexorably closer

Washing away the dirt of toil

Cleansing away dust and dwelling alike.

 

Thunder booms ominously

Result of Lightning flashes

Like a million fireflies dying.

 

Winds roar at me

As I struggle to find shelter

Before I’m blown away.

22

Today would have been my brother’s 22nd birthday. He would be graduating college in the spring. Maybe he would have a girlfriend, or even a fiancée. Who knows what could have been.

Happy Birthday, brother. I miss you.

~~~

It has been 5 long years and a half,

And still my grief is near,

Hiding just behind a laugh

As smile turns to tear.

 

Some days I feel almost whole:

I am in control.

And other days my raining eyes

Take me by surprise.

 

It has been 5 long years and a half,

And still my grief is near.

In 5 more years and another half

Will it still be here?

On Writing

“Write me,” my novel begged me.

“How?” I begged it back.

“How can I write what others think,

What others feel and do?

They are not me, though I created them.

I am not them, though their source is me.”

 

“Write me,” my novel begged me.

“Why?” I demanded back.

“These people have no claim on me.

They owe me their existence.

I alone created them.

Their source is in me.”

 

“Write me,” my novel begged me.

“I can’t,” I answered back.

“I haven’t the words my people deserve.

I cannot do them the justice they so greedily beg.

They are not me, and I cannot live their lives.

I am not them, and they cannot live mine.”

 

“Write me,” my novel begged me.

And this time I complied.

I chronicled times I’ve never lived and places I’ve never seen.

I met so many people I had never known.

They are not me, but for a time I knew them.

I am not them, but for a while they knew me.