the glories strung like beads on my smallest sights and hearings,
the life, love, sight, hearing of others.
Others will see the islands large and small.
A hundred years hence, others will see them.
what is it then between us?
what is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us?
I too felt the curious abrupt questionings stir within me
It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall,
The dark threw its patches down upon me also,
I laid in my stores in advance,
I considered long and seriously of you before you were born.
We understand then do we not?
Live, old life!
Play the old role!
Receive the summer sky, you water, and faithfully hold it
Till all downcast eyes have time to take it from you.
You have waited, you always wait.
We receive you at last.
We plant you permanently within us.
We fathom you not. We love you.
These are Walt Whitman's words
7 comments:
Judy
hairs...theirs...yours, but mostly theirs...like Vines and strong
blades of wild grasses
girls
girls of wild grasses
(((Judy)))love your tree rings holding the years, in this beautiful piece that continues to grow even more so!
The alchemy of golden and silver (hair)
I know his words well, so well, from my father.
how well his words meet form.
The way you pair the words and images. Art. The silver pair of wood and cloth. Tousled hair speaking of youth and adventure - eyes forward, eyes forward.
All together, pure poetry.
Precious sharing, Judy... The glorious colour and depth of the story the lines in play with the cloth here. I am always intrigued and amazed at the amount of stitch, and delve into the words with great abandon as I scroll through your posts. Thank you...
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