Thursday, January 15, 2015
by Linda Gregg
All that is uncared for.
Left alone in the stillness
in that pure silence married
to the stillness of nature.
A door off its hinges,
shade and shadows in an empty room.
Leaks for light. Raw where
the tin roof rusted through.
The rustle of weeds in their
different kinds of air in the mornings,
year after year.
A pecan tree, and the house
made out of mud bricks. Accurate
and unexpected beauty, rattling
and singing. If not to the sun,
then to nothing and to no one.
This is how beauty often is - unexpected, offering itself up to the sun, or the falling snow, or to no one.
There it is in the snow collecting in my Tibetan prayer flags, those that have been set awry by the wind.
There it is on the bells, small accumulations of snow resembling hats.
And in the shadows cast on winter walls, fleeting and mysterious.