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.

Friday, August 12, 2011

As Usual

After we have parted, the boats
Will continue to leave the harbor at dawn.
The salmon will struggle up to the pools,
one month following the other on the wall.

The magnolia will flower,
and the bee - the noble bee -
I saw one earlier on my walk -
will shoulder his way into the bud.

--Billy Collins

Posted by at

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)