Kirstie's+Fave

Becoming a Redwood
By Dana Gioia

Stand in a field long enough, and the sounds start up again. The crickets, the invisible toad who claims that change is possible,

And all the other life too small to name. First one, then another, until innumerable they merge into the single voice of a summer hill.

Yes, it’s hard to stand still, hour after hour, fixed as a fencepost, hearing the steers snort in the dark pasture, smelling the manure.

And paralyzed by the mystery of how a stone can bear to be a stone, the pain the grass endures breaking through the earth’s crust.

Unimaginable the redwoods on the far hill, rooted for centuries, the living wood grown tall and thickened with a hundred thousand days of light.

The old windmill creaks in perfect time to the wind shaking the miles of pasture grass, and the last farmhouse light goes off.

Something moves nearby. Coyotes hunt these hills and packs of feral dogs. But standing here at night accepts all that.

You are your own pale shadow in the quarter moon, moving more slowly than the crippled stars, part of the moonlight as the moonlight falls,

Part of the grass that answers the wind, part of the midnight’s watchfulness that knows there is no silence but when danger comes.



Dream Flowers By Margaret Pedler

Beyond the hill there's a garden, Fashioned of sweetest flowers, Calling to you with its voice of gold, Telling you all that your heart may hold. Beyond the hill there's a garden fair-- My garden of happy hours.

Dream Flowers grow in that garden, Blossom of sun and showers, There, withered hopes may bloom anew, Dreams long forgotten shall come true. Beyond the hill there's a garden fair-- My garden of happy hours.