A letter is holy. A story
is holy hands reaching out into the world.
Birds come home
across distance I can’t conceive
and live in their bodies.
Ash in the air. Every place I’ve been
is on fire with words.
I throw away all my love letters
without noticing. Mountains
in the heart.
to me? I leave the world
all the time. These arms, these
fingers, this tongue, these feet,
and their bent wings. I know
it will be dirt, the prayers
now in marrow will retake
earth. I will live inside whatever flies
Burning, the brink of all things.
by Eireann Lorsung from Music For Landing Planes By: poems
Saturday morning. Cool air and hundreds of birds calling back and forth to each other in the trees just outside. On days like this I hear a line of a poem in my head over and over: “I dreamed of days that stopped in the beginning” And I know what it means. So, not much to say, because I have to get back to the task at hand. Of sitting and listening and drinking my coffee and being on my porch with a good book of poems.
My mailart above is settling into her new home. I like to imagine the room she is in and what her view will be.