In the deep blue

If mirrors could speak... Self image film

A quiet, bright reedsong

All day and night, music, 

a quiet, bright

reedsong. If it

fades, we fade. 

(Rumi)

Blessed sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

*

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care

Teach us to sit still.

*

This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.

Blessed sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.

T.S. Eliot: Ash Wednesday (fragments)

Take a look at me now, it is the season of rain

Spring rain (III)

Spring rain (II)

I always knew I loved the sky,

the way it seems solid and insubstantial at the same time;

the way it disappears above us

even as we pursue it in a climbing plane,

like wishes or answers to certain questions—always out of reach;

the way it embodies blue,

even when it is gray.

But I didn't know I loved the clouds,

those shaggy eyebrows glowering

over the face of the sun.

Perhaps I only love the strange shapes clouds can take,

as if they are sketches by an artist

who keeps changing her mind.

Perhaps I love their deceptive softness,

like a bosom I'd like to rest my head against

but never can.

Linda Pastan: Things I Didn't Know I Loved: After Nazim Hikmet

to stop and stare and wonder