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Thursday, December 4, 2014

what you know which is nothing




Lines for Winter

By Mark Strand

Tell yourself
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself—
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
tell yourself
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back
and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.



{source}

You may have heard that the poet Mark Strand has died. It seems appropriate to post one of my favourite Strand poems this morning.








I popped into The Beauty We Love this morning and found this:




You can also listen to Maya Beiser's NPR Tiny Desk Concert here.


The poem, of course, takes on new meaning now.

All the more reason to tell yourself 'that you love what you are.'





Yesterday, I went outside with a couple of the dried out roses that were sitting in my stone bowl on the kitchen table. There was a small breeze, and when I dropped them on the snow, they scattered of their own accord.




Sometimes I think I must seem like a very odd middle-aged woman, dropping dried flower petals in the snow, and kneeling down in snowbanks to take photographs. Standing in small forests and peering at leaves for inordinate amounts of time. Walking through the suburbs with camera slung around my neck, dog trotting beside, stopping to look at nondescript bits of things.

But then, I think, well, so be it. I'll go on walking. No turning back.






One last thing, if you have a second, check out the latest in our Humans of EPL project, and give it a like if you feel able. I can't tell you how pleased I am to be part of it.







1 comment:

  1. Impossibly beautiful colours. That Mother Nature . . . Thanks for being her photo journalist.

    ReplyDelete

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