Archive for the ‘Come Outside’ Category


February 9, 2007 2 comments
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Into Great Silence

February 8, 2007 4 comments

In the abbey of the Grand Chartreuse
a monk kneels for the seventh time this day,
his lips moving silently,
his spine bent into its usual question.

Because he is the oldest they call him wise,
though sometimes he thinks he knows even less
than when he started.
Sometimes he wonders if this isn’t wisdom.

Outside, the first snowfall covers the mountains.
Blank and absolute
it offers itself to the mountain creatures,
it offers itself to their sure-footed hunger.
It offers them hunger.

by Esther Morgan

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My Mind is Troubling Me

February 7, 2007 3 comments
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Last week of the farm

February 6, 2007 2 comments

The herb gardens: gone.
Only sage remains, adrift
in a sea of soil and hay.
In the fields, dark rippled kale
overlooks a fuzz of winter rye.

Crows scatter from the squash
smashed atop the compost pile
as I approach. The mountains
are turning purple, turning pale,
leaves fallen.

It’s hard not to feel sorrow.
Even these sheep, looking up
from their salt lick to nose
a green tomato, are destined
for slaughter…

But look at the farmer’s house.
On a tall extension ladder
he tapes windows. Soon
seed catalogues will trickle
into the mailbox like rain.

by Rachel Barenblat of Velveteen Rabbi

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February 5, 2007 5 comments
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La Nostalgie

February 2, 2007 1 comment

The rain was soft the soil was warm

that summer of long skirts in batiked peony
fringed and wrapped round easy hips, and shifts
of sherbet yellow, mirror sprinkled all the way from India.

The rain was soft and sweet the soil was warm and rich

when we went barefoot and patchouli oiled
to gather rain spoiled roses and the flimsied heads
of everlasting flowers, silver membranes from thin honesty.

The rain was soft and sweet and fine, the soil was warm and rich and dark

when broom pods split and rattled out their seeds
between our tattooed toes, and rowan leaves caught
in our crowns of coiled and braided hair.

The rain was soft the soil was warm, that summer of long skirts.

by Susan Utting

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Rise and Shine

February 1, 2007 3 comments
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January 31, 2007 1 comment
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Towers Bench

January 30, 2007 2 comments
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Night comes in

January 29, 2007 4 comments

Late evening.
I step outside.
At first the dark
means nothing

but conclusion.
Then the pocked
light of a few stars
and a sliver of moon,

creamy but tart, like
apple sliced, and
through trees
a fragrance of bells.

by Dick Jones of the Patteran Pages

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