Saturday, September 26, 2009
The brook never dries,
That is its promise.
"As long as there's skies,
I run on."
Clear and cold,
rocks cup and hold
nature's gifts to ponder.
Blue heron stands
still as a staff,
mink never stops
Red leaves are caught,
they tumble and play,
a wonderful gift,
this water ballet.
Brook thoughts drift peacefully
over joys of the past
of grace and times,
that memory holds fast.
I go on to another place,
the brook goes ,forever after.
'til once again in this peaceful place
I'll hear its running laughter.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Arrived home on Thursday to a computer that had died and alot of stuff to put away.Despite this and the 18 hours in the car,it was good to be home from N.Y.While we were there, we enjoyed a lovely week with my new/old friend and her husband.Their pleasure at being in the mountains was so rewarding.She wrote a lovely poem about her experience that I may ask to post on this site.Just beautiful.
My husband put in a rock labyrinth on a friend's property in August.Such hard work but the resulting path became a very holy place to walk.Angels swirled about and prayed with me as I walked.
The weather was cool,crisp and just delightful for the three months that we were there.I made a new friend and we spent a lovely day together,laughing and sharing deeply.Thank you,Garnette.
In June,we had to bury my Retriever, Cooper.He was 16 1/2 years old and he rests on a hill over the pool in the brook where he used to swim after sticks.Red, orange and yellow nasturtiums trail over the stone grave and I placed sticks here and there.When we left ,I felt like I was abandoning him.
My sister's ashes were buried in the small valley churchyard in early June.Appropriately, it rained on and off all day.Her family and friends gathered to say goodbye and a few verses were read.Over the summer, each time I passed by, I could see that one of her daughter's had left a rock formation or a flower.So sad.
One of the highlights of the stay in the mountains was a poetry walk along the rock sides of a rushing creek.It was led by a tall,gentle faced, woman Buddhist monk .Walking slowly, then stopping, we read some poetry that seemed perfect for me to savor.At the end of the short walk, we were served tea in silence.Peace, serenity and beauty.Across the stream, a black bear appeared, not wanting to miss something new.
While drifting around a strange shop in the town where we go to church,I found some treasures.Two small wooden boxes with figures burned on them .They call this pyrography.One box had a monk and a blazing heart.Another,pansies.They were created in the early 1900s and they are known as Flemish Art.They are both flawed but useful.In one box,I put prayer requests;in the other I am storing seeds for next year's garden.
And then, in the strange state of Vermont, I found my ancestor's grave and house which has been steadliy occupied since the 1700s.This the the Revolutionary War hero.Quite a lucky find and we also stumbled over Robert Frost's grave.A birch grows right next to the headstone for those who loved his poem ,"Birches"."One could do worse than be a swinger of birches."Ah,yes.