I go among trees and sit still.
All my stirring becomes quiet
around me like circles on water.
My tasks lie in their places
where I left them, asleep like cattle.
Then what is afraid of me comes
and lives a while in my sight.
What it fears in me leaves me,
and the fear of me leaves it.
It sings, and I hear its song.
Then what I am afraid of comes.
I live for a while in its sight.
What I fear in it leaves it,
and the fear of it leaves me.
It sings, and I hear its song.
After days of labor,
mute in my consternations,
I hear my song at last,
and I sing it. As we sing,
the day turns, the trees move.
~by Wendell Berry, in A Timbered Choir
3 comments:
Lovely.
Have you read much/any of Berry's poetry? Of the three forms he writes in (fiction/essay/poetry), his poetry is probably my least favorite, but when I like them, I REALLY like them. His best poetry is simply great.
Of course, what do I know?
No, I've just read the short stories in the books that you gave me.
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