There's More to Life Than Knitting!

Join Suna as she stops knitting long enough to ponder her life, share her joys and concerns, and comment on the goings on in the world.
You are very welcome here, so feel free to comment and contribute!

Thursday, May 17, 2007

Beauty of Beauties

I got permission to share this poem, from an upcoming collection by John Berry, one of the wonderful poets at ye Olde Spiritual Community. My guess is it is both a tribute to his wife, who is fading from a debilitating disease, but whose spirit still shines, and to the dark goddess in us all. I thought it would balance yesterday's post:

Beauty of Beauties

She is the beauty of the breaking wave.
No longer slow, smooth swell of open sea,
nor first breaking at seamost sandbar,
She is the translucent shell, arching over,
white topped, on its final run to the beach.
It will collapse into a chaos of foam,
stirring the sand, and return to the sea.

She is the beauty of the falling leaves.
No longer single leaves shining red,
not a single tree gleaming gold,
She is myriad bright colors, hill upon hill,
trees of yellow and red, rich gold and piney green.
Singly and in masses, the leaves will fall,
mulching trees against cold, to return in Spring buds.

She is the beauty of the on-coming storm.
No longer is the sky blue, with white cloud-puffs,
nor adorned by veils of grey rain from dark, distant clouds.
She is the norther's fresh, spreading bruise,
rich purple-black to the horizon, dressed with lightning.
The storm will make floods fall, and night.
And, when it passes, sun, sky and clouds will be purified again.

She is the beauty of the ripening grain.
No longer simply stalks stretching for sun,
nor long-haired, empty ears swaying in the breeze.
She is the swelling kernels, golden ripe for harvest.
Threshed and winnowed, guarded in the grainery,
they, in the mill, become flour, added water and yeast make dough,
and, when well leavened, the oven bakes it to bread.

She is the beauty of beauties of every kind.
No longer the maiden standing on the silver crescent,
nor the love-and-battle muse of the golden-ripe moon, bulking the horizon.
She is the dark, comely dancer of the black sickle.
Day-birds will roost in eerie dusk and owls fly
in midday night when her absence steals the sun.
Yet all she swallows, she gives birth to, even herself.

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