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.

Thursday, December 14, 2023

Song

Love that is bound has gone

with the late alchemy of stars at dawn

affirming as they die 

what day's accustomed clarities deny.

 

Love that is lost remains

with the green advent of next season rains

that start the trees to flower

through their impetuous, unreported hour.

 

--Rosamund Stanhope

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