In My Sister’s Words

Sometimes I lack words to articulate the wrench in my gut.  Yesterday morning I spied a hawk on a utility pole adjacent to a farmer’s field on Jackson Slough Road just south of HIghway 12 on Andrus Island.  I stopped to photograph the bird.  When I got home and uploaded the picture, his deep stare into my lens startled me.  In that moment, I felt incredibly insignificant.  A poem by a St. Louis sister came to me.  While my feeble utterings can never rise even to the level of her poorest fare, we share a hometown so I dare to claim some connection. 

For a moment, I will let my sister’s words speak for me. 

It’s the twelfth day of the ninety-seventh month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

There Will Come Soft Rains
Sara Teasdale – 1884-1933

(War Time)

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,

Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.


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