We are on the cusp between seasons. The air is warm, but not as moist as a week ago. The trees are starting to twinkle golden on the edges, but are still lush. Summer is finishing, but not yet done, and autumn is in the air, but not quite here.
Here is a poem sent by Karen from Tennessee to mark the season that is still with us. Enjoy your day.
Song of the BuildersArt: Tenaya Peak, by Chiura Obata, 1930
By Mary Oliver
On a summer morning
I sat down
on a hillside
to think about God -
a worthy pastime.
Near me, I saw
a single cricket;
it was moving the grains of the hillside
this way and that way.
How great was its energy,
how humble its effort.
Let us hope
it will always be like this,
each of us going on
in our inexplicable ways
building the universe.
2 comments:
Yes, our "inexplicable ways" have to include this so-called pastor in FL who plans, and then changes his mind repeatedly, about burning Qu'rans. I feel like John Calvin did about Michael Servetus, in his case. How unforgiving of me!
Jim,
Greetings from the old neighborhood in Sacramento. I was just noticing that within a week of Labor Day, the leaves are starting to dry, blow down and are collecting in the sheltered places.
Bill J
PS Thank you for posting the Obata print.
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