Every year, 26,000 babies are stillborn in America. In 2003, one of them was my son.

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

For Thanksgiving, a Poem

Because I am thankful for, among many, many other things, poetry, I give you this, by Mary Oliver.
Morning Poem 
Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange

sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches ---
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it

the thorn
that is heavier than lead ---
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging ---

there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted ---

each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
every morning,

whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.

Friday, November 4, 2011

Still Life 365 Spoken Word Blog Round Up

Angie, over at Still Life With Circles, suggested this blog round up of videos. I'm a bit late chiming in, but better late than never.