DECEMBER 5: OUR MONTH TO BE THE PEACE WE WISH FOR by Colleen Keating  

MONDAY 5TH DECEMBER

Day 5

“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”

Rainer Maria Rilke

Finding paradox while watering the garden

under the lower shady leaves
it hides
wanting only time
cycle time
clues left in the nibbled holes
on my green osmocoted leaves
on my  salmon rose that makes me sing
Mary Olivers words –
Sunshine and showers . . .
its morning and again
I am that lucky person who is in it .

i spent yesterday mesmerised
by white butterflies
somersaulting around the garden
in intoxicated revelry
and they too made me sing –
Mary Olivers words
its morning and again
I am that lucky person who is in it .

today  I find my rose
caught in time cycles
cocoons  pouches of eggs
i say   not on my rose
and it reveals itself
humbly like a koen
in my searching hands
still making me sing
Mary Oliver words –
I am that lucky person who is in it

Also a  family birthday for our 11 year old grandson with family, food and fun. Lovely to watch the grandchildren growing up so beautifully under the guidance of our children.

 

The Yellow Rose

 

 

The Yellow Rose 

And the weather turns around

from pyrocumulous horror

our  infernoed land is drowned

in flooding rain

and now a misty morning

for walking once again

after a scorching summer

of ash and smoke hazed air

 

I see the  rosebush has survived                                            

for  the yellow rose nods

smiles as if it recognises me

and murmurs

 

just for a moment

it stops me in my tracks    draws me in

then its smile is in the curled petals

its nods in the zephyr of breeze

and I move into my day singing

my rose has the look of  a flower

that is  looked at*

acknowledged and loved

like the rose in the little Prince

  • TS Eliot