Finding the Essence

Each of these images might be worth a post, but I don't know what I would say that the image doesn't already convey.  Perhaps a small poem ... feel free to conjure up a few words. Distill the idea to its essence. Trust your instincts. Share them in a comment if you will...

See?  And you said you couldn't write poetry ...

Love Along the Grain

"The Grain of Sound"

A banjo maker in the mountains,
when looking out for wood to carve
an instrument, will walk among
the trees and knock on trunks. He'll hit
the bark and listen for a note.
A hickory makes the brightest sound;
the poplar has a mellow ease.
But only straightest grain will keep
the purity of tone, the sought-
for depth that makes the licks sparkle.
A banjo has a shining shiver.
Its twangs will glitter like the light
on splashing water, even though
its face is just a drum of hide
of cow, or cat, or even skunk.
The hide will magnify the note,
the sad of honest pain, the chill
blood-song, lament, confession, haunt,
as tree will sing again from root
and vein and sap and twig in wind
and cat will moan as hand plucks nerve,
picks bone and skin and gut and pricks
the heart as blood will answer blood
and love begins to knock along the grain.

~ Robert Morgan

When Beauty Takes Root

Penny, a blogging friend, has challenged her readers to do whatever they can to establish a wildlife habitat right where they're at. No matter the size, whether a flower basket on the balcony of an apartment, or an oasis in your little corner of the world, we can all do something to create a healthier planet for all its inhabitants and add to the beauty of this world. I encourage you to pay a visit to her blog. Then, see what you can do to meet her challenge and even spread the word.

http://lifeonthecutoff.wordpress.com/2013/07/25/a-challenge/


Photograph by Penny.

On the Porch

Wendell Berry remains one of my favorite writers. He writes so beautifully and so poignantly of our shared human experience.


"They Sit Together on the Porch"

They sit together on the porch, the dark

Almost fallen, the house behind them dark.

Their supper done with, they have washed and dried

The dishes – only two plates now, two glasses,

Two knives, two forks, two spoons – small work for two.

She sits with her hands folded in her lap,

At rest. He smokes his pipe. They do not speak,

And when they speak at last it is to say

What each one knows the other knows. They have

One mind between them, now, that finally

For all its knowing will not exactly know

Which one goes first through the dark doorway, bidding

Goodnight, and which sits on a while alone.

~ Wendell Berry

The photograph is mine. It's the back porch at my farmhouse in Ansel where I spent the '90's.