Absence disembodies — so does Death
Hiding individuals from the Earth
Superstition helps, as well as love —
Tenderness decreases as we prove —
~ Emily Dickinson
(The Poems of Emily Dickinson, #904)
grief
exceptional drought
Our county has been in an “exceptional drought” since late June. This is the highest and most severe category listed on the U.S. Drought Monitor. For almost a year we’ve climbed through “moderate,” “severe,” and “extreme” to reach this new level, capped off with record-breaking dry spells in the spring.
It’s been very hot, too, and I suspect the sun-drenched water this poor squirrel is drinking is pretty warm, too. We keep breaking high temperature records. As I take pictures from the comfort of an air-conditioned room my heart breaks for the creatures struggling outside for days on end in the heat.
As the temperature rises, it will drive a great migration — of humans, of animals, of plants, of jobs, of wealth, of diseases. They will all seek out cooler ecological niches where they can thrive. Some will fare better than others. Robins can migrate more easily than elephants. Poison ivy can move more quickly than an oak tree. Farmers who grow wheat have more options than farmers who grow peaches. And some creatures have nowhere to go. Polar bears in the Arctic can’t migrate farther north. Frogs in Costa Rica aren’t going to hop up to Canada.
~ Jeff Goodell
(The Heat Will Kill You First: Life & Death on a Scorched Planet)
slow growing
Except the smaller size
No lives are round —
These — hurry to a sphere
And show and end —
The larger — slower grow
And later hang —
The Summers of Hesperides
Are long.
~ Emily Dickinson
(The Poems of Emily Dickinson, #606)
silent sunday
refreshment and solace
Some people take their troubles to a particular tree and gain refreshment and solace from its company; others derive inspiration from sitting at its foot or in its branches; still others have discovered that trees are truly mediators between the worlds, living bridges between our apparent world and the unseen realms of the otherworld. When we approach a tree, we need to slow down our breathing, slow down our rapid pace, our mental busyness, in order to be attuned to the spirit of the tree itself. … With our heart, we ask the tree to show us part of its nature. … We listen and give thanks. Even when we are just passing a tree, not visiting, we can still send out a greeting to it.
~ Caitlín Matthews
(The Celtic Spirit: Daily Meditations for the Turning Year)
water lilies
There are two healings: nature’s,
and ours and nature’s. Nature’s
will come in spite of us, after us,
over the graves of its wasters, as it comes
to the forsaken fields. The healing
that is ours and nature’s will come
if we are willing, if we are patient,
if we know the way, if we will do the work.
~ Wendell Berry
(This Day: Collected & New Sabbath Poems)
in the meadow
Beauty — be not caused — It Is —
Chase it, and it ceases —
Chase it not, and it abides —
Overtake the Creases
In the Meadow — when the Wind
Runs his fingers thro’ it —
Deity will see to it
That You never do it —
~ Emily Dickinson
(The Poems of Emily Dickinson, #654)
a month of fixed facts
The foliage of to-day will not be denser or of deeper tints to-morrow, and whether in upland or in meadow you will find no new birds. Those that came to stay are now busy with their nests; those that tarried for a while, en route for more northern homes, have long since left us. June is a month of fixed facts, but they are none the less interesting because of this. What transpired a year ago, this day or week or month, or even half a century ago, is now being or will be re-enacted. But all was not reported then, and much has been slighted since, so that the danger is slight indeed that the record of any June day out of doors will be a twice-told tale.
~ Charles Conrad Abbott
(Days Out of Doors)
after summer merrily
Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip’s bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On a bat’s back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
~ William Shakespeare
(The Tempest)