All goes back to the earth,
and so I do not desire
pride of excess or power,
but the contentments made
by men who have had little:
the fisherman's silence
receiving the river's grace,
the gardener's musing on rows.
I lack the peace of simple things.
I am never wholly in place.
I find no peace or grace.
We sell the world to buy fire,
our way lighted by burning men,
and that has bent my mind
and made me think of darkness
and wish for the dumb life of roots.
-W. Berry
i love this poem.
ReplyDeletei think it is written on my soul,
and like a well-loved song,
i recognize it by the very first notes.
i have so much to talk to you about - and i have a weekend's worth of morning pictures to post soon
don't think i have forgotten