For we are like olives: only when we’re crushed do we
yield what’s best in us, reads a line from the Talmud.
Is that part of the song, barely audible, of the bird in the boxwood?
Such a long train of years: it’s traveled so far from the station of childhood.
Don’t pine, don’t yield. The waves come back, sometimes with driftwood.
Darker and denser, the colors and strands of old life in the heartwood.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Bitter Root
- [poem removed by author]
- Overhead, the thin high whistle of a tree sparrow—
- What Use
- Spring Evening
- Ad infinitum
- Cold Press
- Unto every one that hath shall be given;
- Round Mat #2
- Hagia Sophia
- A Softening
- To Love
- Flaming Heart
- (poem temporarily hidden by author)
- In the Eye
- Fire Trees
- Instructions on how to play the mouth-harp*
- A Shadow
- from Ghost Blueprints