The Judge is like the Owl—
I’ve heard my Father tell—
And Owls do build in Oaks—
So here’s an Amber Sill—
That slanted in my Path—
When going to the Barn—
And if it serve You for a House—
Itself is not in vain—
About the price—’tis small—
I only ask a Tune
At Midnight—Let the Owl select
His favorite Refrain.
—Emily Dickinson
People ask me what I do in winter when there’s no baseball. I’ll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring. ~Rogers Hornsby
Wild Geese
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting—
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
© Mary Oliver. Online Source
My great-grandfather crafted this statue of Michael the Archangel to stand over his own grave. (His name was Michael Valentine Rosenauer- he wanted his patron saint standing guard.)
Slightly morbid of a post, yes, but I think it’s interesting to note how people want to be remembered and what they want left standing when they no longer are.
