"By what blessedness do I weep?"

May you gather more oxygen from today, hands on moss.

Wild flowers no. 2 by Ellen Robbins, 1861–1897, Public Domain

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Sabbaths 1998

by Wendell Berry

I

Whatever happens,
those who have learned
to love one another
have made their way
to the lasting world
and will not leave,
whatever happens.

II

This is the time you’d like to stay.
Not a leaf stirs. There is no sound.
The fireflies lift light from the ground.
You’ve shed the vanities of when
And how and why, for now. And then
The phone rings. You are called away.

III

Early in the morning, walking
in a garden in Vancouver
three thousand miles from your grave,
the sky dripping, song
sparrows singing in the borders,
I come suddenly upon
a Japanese dogwood, a tree
you loved, bowed down with bloom.
By what blessedness do I weep?

IV

The woods and pastures are joyous
in their abundance now
in a season of warmth and much rain.
We walk amidst foliage, amidst
song. The sheep and cattle graze
like souls in bliss (except for flies)
and lie down satisfied. Who now
can believe in winter? In winter
who could have hoped for this?

from This Day: Collected & New Sabbath Poems, (Counterpoint Press, 2014)

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Invitation

Consider what a song of love has in common with a song of liberation (to you, in your life).

Define your inexplicable blessedness. What can best be seen from outside?

Draw a winter snowscene with a sign of life.

(I did this just now in one minute— just a line across the white page (snow, blanket) and one tiny stroke sprig of green life (breath future). What happens when you let a pen move?