Today came and shortly after Today came again.
It goes like this. It will always go like this, and I
dislike the word always, but I find it grand to
think about the departure of one day for another,
and I think it grand about how even after the
most beautiful sunrise, that I know in my heart,
there will be a more beautiful sunrise soon enough.
From a common sunrise we began.
By noon we no longer remember
the crawling from the beginning
And at sunset the pace has become
and excited action; much like the
gliding of a Raven as the search
for the deepest midnight calls to
the very structure of our souls and
in that darkest hour we feel what
we’ll discover and it’s because of this
that there’s no stopping the next
Was gifted this sunrise this morning. If you look closely you’ll spot the old road we are uncovering.
I love October.
There’s a thing about a morning
The way it settles in
How the mist moves slowly
How we feel
I wonder if anyone else watches
about how the leaves look
That’s the thing about a morning
Each one is slightly different
I hope your day treats you well.
There’s something about the sun going down that I admire.
It never looks back.
I believe in the rush of a golden sunrise;
first the tips of the evergreens brighten, along
with the oaks and the maples that are tall and full
of wisdom, then slowly climbing its way down
along the horizon until finally reaching earth’s
padded forest floor where I stand waiting to be
among the showering brilliance of light with its
warmth and comfort, baiting me to accept what
the day may bring, or what I might make of it,
and willingly with a comfortable confidence, I do.
I like to watch the sun come up
I can’t see it from my window
But I know it’s there
It’s always there
A deceased morning
asked for another
and again rose the sun-
Leading away the layers
of decaying shadows.
During a dark time, I found relief in the poem below. I was lucky enough to have lived a few miles from where Emily Dickinson spent her entire adult life. As many of you know, she would often times shut herself in, upstairs, writing poetry. She would watch the children play from her window perch. Sometimes, she would lower poems down, in a basket from her window to the ground, and give them to the children. Emily had a wonderful heart.
‘Ample make this bed-
Make this bed with Awe-
In it wait till Judgment break
Excellent and Fair.
Be its Mattress straight-
Be its Pillow round-
Let no Sunrise’ yellow noise
Interrupt this Ground-‘
Final Harvest, 341 (829)- Emily Dickson