Author: dig

Earthquake Magnitude 7.4 – 5 km S of San José del Palmar, Colombia. Servicio Geológico Colombiano.

El volcán Puracé, also, erupted.

Of course it was a disaster.
The unbearable, dearest secret
has always been a disaster.
The danger when we try to leave.
Going over and over afterward
what we should have done
instead of what we did.
But for those short times
we seemed to be alive. Misled,
misused, lied to and cheated,
certainly. Still, for that
little while, we visited
our possible life.

Going There, Jack Gilbert

Tell me is there anything lovelier, 
Anything more quieting 
Than the green of little blades of grass
And the green of little leaves? 

Is not each leaf a cool green hand, 
Is not each blade of grass a mothering green finger, 
Hushing the heart that beats and beats and beats?

Greenness, Angelina Weld Grimké

In the very early morning 
Long before Dawn time 
I lay down in the paddock 
And listened to the cold song of the grass. 
Between my fingers the green blades, 
And the green blades pressed against my body. 
“Who is she leaning so heavily upon me?” 
Sang the grass. 
“Why does she weep on my bosom,
Mingling her tears with the tears of my mystic lover?
Foolish little earth child! 
It is not yet time. 
One day I shall open my bosom 
And you shall slip in—but not weeping. 
Then in the early morning 
Long before Dawn time 
Your lover will lie in the paddock. 
Between his fingers the green blades 
And the green blades pressed against his body . . . 
My song shall not sound cold to him 
In my deep wave he will find the wave of your hair 
In my strong sweet perfume, the perfume of your kisses. 
Long and long he will lie there  . . . 
Laughing—not weeping.”

The Earth-Child in the Grass, Katherine Mansfield

To be able to walk along and see
the fierce green sun
the meadow grass the tall gently bobbing weeds
then to take a walk inside yourself
and see trees tall as Tom Thumb
It’s always raining here It never rains
I’m strolling among the shadows of everyone
I’ve ever loved
But this morning I was flying with the birds
Not knowing like the map there was a destination
But it was fun
Like making love on Tuesday instead of
our customary Sunday afternoon
I’ve learned to suffocate death
and continue doing so all day

Song, Paul Carroll