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Poem for today:

Dear March -- Come in --

How glad I am --

I hoped for you before --

Put down your Hat --

You must have walked --

How out of Breath you are --

Dear March, Come right up the stairs with me --

I have so much to tell --

I got your Letter, and the Birds --

The Maples never knew that you were coming -- till I called

I declare -- how Red their Faces grew --

But March, forgive me -- and

All those Hills you left for me to Hue --

There was no Purple suitable --

You took it all with you --

Who knocks? That April.

Lock the Door --

I will not be pursued --

He stayed away a Year to call

When I am occupied --

But trifles look so trivial

As soon as you have come

That Blame is just as dear as Praise

And Praise as mere as Blame --

(Emily Dickinson)

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Graveyard detritus.

“G”

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A 2,000+ acre Slough Wildlife Management Area.

Interesting ecosystem but also very eerie.

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Liars’ bench outside an abandoned general store in the Delta of Arkansas.

(iPhone 13)

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Django Reinhardt: Virtuosic Musical Game-Changer (or) How One Man, One Fire, and Two Fingers Defied the Odds

Reinhardt recorded at least 13 versions of his composition “Nuages.” The literal translation is “Clouds” but once lyrics were added, it was called “the bluest kind of blues.” (Taking the metaphor of clouds in that direction warrants its own post. Lovely.)

In this electric version of “Nuages” Reinhardt displays an introspection that is astounding. Recorded shortly before his death in 1953, I find the gentler tempo, the sparse opening, and the phrase shaping so terribly evocative and wistful.

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Last call

Altar call

Roll call

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excerpt no.43

…. Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for right. I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith. …

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Hey, Chicago.

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unknown number

If I don’t recognize the number, I rarely answer the call.

508? With no area code? I take a chance.

I hear my name through the static, Garbled voice.

I disconnect, but Wait for the number to reappear.

508 again. No static this time. I can hear you clearly.

No, I won’t meet you for a drink. Yes, I heard you were blind. No, I don’t sing in bars anymore.

You say you don’t recall that I was so religious, And I say that I don’t want you to call me ever again.

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Farmhouse: December silence

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Sunrise on the prairie.

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Sunset on the prairie.

(iPhone 8)

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“And still, after all this time, the Sun has never said to the Earth,‘You owe me.’ Look what happens with love like that. It lights up the sky.”

Jalal ad-Din Rumi

(In-ground sculpture installation; Terra Studios, Washington Co., Arkansas; iPhone 8)

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Shield of the unsung heroes.

(Abandoned building; iPhone 8)

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Still a lot of color in the late November woods.

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In honor of the good memories, quiet and riotous memories, heartbreaking memories; all memories centered around the powerful kitchen table, I share with you one of my favorite poems.

May your Thanksgiving be exactly what you need it to be. May your table be “a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.”

xo

****

Perhaps the World Ends Here

BY JOY HARJO

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

.