On the margins of my walk small birds excite my dog. It’s like she just now registered their existence. Her exuberance at their presence seems lodged as a half-formed instinctual memory. Today she found a dead mouse–tossed it, rolled on it, and ran from me holding it gently in her mouth. The garden had been generous in ways she had never imagined. Nearby the milkweed stood tall, a weedy sentry to our antics.
On winter’s margin, see the small birds now
With half-forged memories come flocking home
To gardens famous for their charity.
The green globe’s broken; vines like tangled veins
Hang at the entrance to the silent wood.
— Mary Oliver, from On Winter’s Margin
3 replies on “#6 decembrance 2020”
I have have just stumbled across your blogs and feel as if I have struck gold. I too am seeking creative deliverance. Exposure to amazing art uplifts my spirit. Your combinations of words (yours and others), images, and the clay pieces in those images sooth and heal my soul.
Thank you!
Nancy, Glad you found some sustenance via my blogs. I’m always trying. All the best… Catherine
Yes to Nancy’s comment above. Yes!
Tom