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.

Saturday, November 13, 2021

Autumn

In the dreamy silenceOf the afternoon, aCloth of gold is wovenOver wood and prairie;And the jaybird, newlyFallen from the heaven,Scatters cordial greetings,And the air is filled withScarlet leaves, that, dropping,Rise again, as ever,With a useless sigh forRest—and it is Autumn.

--Alexander Posey

 

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