FYI, Ryan is doing much, much better. Thanks for asking, Meg. Indeed, he recovered much faster than he was told would happen, by at least a week. He's very thankful for the prayers and lots of advice from Dad and Mom to treat the vile virus. You know, sometimes I like alliteration. But not as sermon helps. Ever.
So here is my poem for the week. I first read it (probably in the early 1970's) in a small Scholastic Book Services book that was compiled in 1966 called A Gift of Watermelon Pickle... And Other Modern Verse. This one was always my favorite, long before I began living here in Oregon.
Oregon Winter
by Jeanne McGahey
The rain begins. This is no summer rain,
Dropping the blotches of wet on the dusty road:
This rain is slow, without thunder or hurry:
There is plenty of time-there will be months of rain.
Lost in the hills, the old gray farmhouses
Hump their backs against it, and smoke from their chimneys
Struggles through weighted air. The sky is sodden with water,
It sags against the hills, and the wild geese,
Wedge-flying, brush the heaviest cloud with their wings.
The farmers move unhurried. The wood is in,
The hay has long been in, the barn lofts piled
Up to the high windows, dripping yellow straws.
There will be plenty of time now, time that will smell of fires,
And drying leather, and catalogues, and apple cores.
The farmers clean their boots, and whittle, and drowse.
Now, why, as a child of the 60's and 70's, that description called to me, I don't know. I think it may somehow be genetic, since my ancestors apparently felt the same calling to the Northwest.
3 comments:
I really like the imagery in that poem. I'm glad that Ryan is better. Being sick is simply saddening. ;)
Next week, I'm really going to try to post my poem on Thursday!
I don't know what I would do. I would hope I would play.
Great poem Zona. It shows how in the past there was at least the opportunity to rest from our labors when creation itself did and stands in judgment on our day and age's seemingly insatiable need to always be doing, working, earning, spending. There is a rhythm to this poem and the life described in it that calls out to me. Thanks.
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