The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

The Story We Know

The way to begin is always the same. Hello,
 Hello. Your hand, your name. So glad, Just fine,
 And Good-bye at the end. That's every story we know,

 And why pretend? But lunch tomorrow? No?
 Yes? An omelette, salad, chilled white wine?
 The way to begin is simple, sane, Hello,

 And then it's Sunday, coffee, the Times, a slow
 Day by the fire, dinner at eight or nine
 And Good-bye. In the end, this is a story we know

 So well we don't turn the page, or look below
 The picture, or follow the words to the next line:
 The way to begin is always the same Hello.

 But one night, through the latticed window, snow
 Begins to whiten the air, and the tall white pine.
 Good-bye is the end of every story we know

 That night, and when we close the curtains, oh,
 We hold each other against that cold white sign
 Of the way we all begin and end. Hello,
 Good-bye is the only story. We know, we know. 

-- Martha Collins

No comments:

Post a Comment