Being
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.
One day
I throw away all my love letters
without noticing. Mountains
in the heart.
What belongs
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.
More hands in my journal.
More mailart orbiting around, trying to find its way to its new home. Maybe I shouldn’t have put that stamp on it.
LOve all the great eye candy of course!! and love the hands in your journals very nice!!! and school is out so watch your mail box dear!!! hope all is well and I see you are of course being creative!! LOVE it!!! Hugs Linda