Tuesday, March 5, 2013

Listening To The Arias Of The Leaves

"Evening--new moon--snow hard crackling and squealing under my rubber boots.  The dark pines over the hermitage.  The graceful black fans and branches of the tall oaks between my field and the monastery.  I said Compline and looked at the cold valley and tasted its peace.  Who is entitled to such peace?  I don't know.  But I would be foolish to leave it for no reason."
                                                                                                          Thomas Merton Journal VII

                                      Late Winter Breeze Through Oak Trees

                                       These old leaves stun and sound
                                            a gently rolling creek
                                               in their congregation’s susurrations
                                                   over my lingering.

                                        These tethered swaying
                                            were urgent once
                                               and fierce in their appetites
                                                  for starlight;

                                        now, dangling parchments
                                           sounding water arias--
                                                   of what become

                                           of the multitudinous,
                                               seemingly discarded

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