All this is God

The bishop came visiting this morning. She gave a lovely sermon on blindness and sight. Things seen and unseen, known and unknown.

A special morning. Teenagers were confirmed. Boys in their bow ties and blue blazers. Girls in summer dresses. Bowing and bashful.  Some other folks were being received into the church. Those already of the faith had their faith renewed.

A big reception after in the Parish Hall. A receiving line. Cake!

And yet what I will forever remember about the morning: conversations with parents about the days those teenagers were born. A young man (he might have been ten years old) sitting by himself, gazing at the fountain. On our brick patio, a toddler teetering with her sippy cup.  Twice this week came news of dear ones who had passed away.

All joys and sorrows, all endings and beginnings.  All this is God.

There is joy
in all:
in the hair I brush each morning,
in the Cannon towel, newly washed,
that I rub my body with each morning,
in the chapel of eggs I cook
each morning,
in the outcry from the kettle
that heats my coffee
each morning,
in the spoon and the chair
that cry “hello there, Anne”
each morning,
in the godhead of the table
that I set my silver, plate, cup upon
each morning.

All this is God,
right here in my pea-green house
each morning
and I mean,
though often forget,
to give thanks,
to faint down by the kitchen table
in a prayer of rejoicing
as the holy birds at the kitchen window
peck into their marriage of seeds.

So while I think of it,
let me paint a thank-you on my palm
for this God, this laughter of the morning,
lest it go unspoken.

The Joy that isn’t shared, I’ve heard,
dies young.

Welcome Morning, by Anne Sexton

Death and the Turtle

Our cat Clover died this spring. She came to us as a kitten fifteen years ago, and she had a good, long life.  I was not with her at the end, but Lisa was, and she says the moment was gentle and peaceful.  Lisa scritched her head, told her she was a good kitty, and Clover was purring as she passed.

We have a couple of things to remember her by. Some pictures, of course, but also a tiny lacquered box that holds her ashes and a plaster cast of a paw print with her name on it. I picked it up just this morning, this talisman against forgetfulness, and held it in my hand.

I also thought of Clover as I read this poem late last week:

Death and the Turtle

I watched the turtle dwindle day by day,
Get more remote, lie limp upon my hand;
When offered food he turned his head away;
The emerald shell grew soft. Quite near the end
Those withdrawn paws stretched out to grasp
His long head in a poignant dying gesture.
It was so strangely like a human clasp,
My heart cracked for the brother creature.

I buried him, wrapped in a lettuce leaf,
The vivid eye sunk inward, a dull stone.
So this was it, the universal grief:
Each bears his own end knit up in the bone.
Where are the dead? we ask, as we hurtle
Toward the dark, part of this strange creation,
One with each limpet, leaf, and smallest turtle—
Cry out for life, cry out in desperation!

Who will remember you when I have gone,
My darling ones, or who remember me?
Only in our wild hearts the dead live on.
Yet these frail engines bound to mystery
Break the harsh turn of all creation’s wheel,
For we remember China, Greece, and Rome,
Our mothers and our fathers, and we steal
From death itself its rich store, and bring it home.

I appreciate how the poem’s first stanza focuses on distance and diminishment. The turtle dwindles and grows more remote with each passing day.  He refuses food, turning away his head. Not until the very end does he reach out the paws which he had earlier withdrawn.  This gesture breaks the persona’s heart, and carries us into the next stanza, with its burial and grief. The death of this “brother creature” causes the persona to consider her own headlong journey into the void, crying out in desperation:

“Where are the dead?”

The final stanza moves beyond death to dwell on hope and memory: note that the word “remember” is repeated three times. The dead live on in our wild hearts, yet these same hearts, these frail, mortal engines, are also bound to a mystery: what awaits us in that dark corner of creation? We cannot know this side of the threshold, yet I, at least, find some consolation in a poem about death that ends in the word “home.”

Death and the Turtle offers death as universal, the inexorable turning of all creation’s wheel. This ending none may sidestep: mothers and fathers, dogs and cats. Death comes, like a thief, to all members of our families, yet if we so choose we might steal something back from it.

We hoard our tokens of remembrance, paw prints and photographs, keepsakes from a journey shared and symbols of our hope that we will meet again.

For Clover, Cupid, and Zoe

Razzle Dazzle

Today’s poem I offer in the spirit of pure fun, an ode to the maddening glory of the English Language.

My son John has been known to express extreme frustration at the ridiculous inconsistencies of his native tongue. Years ago, I used to give a presentation to a local tutoring program called “A Brief History of the English Language,” and one day I shared this tidbit with my youngest:  “only one English-speaker in 100 can pronounce all seven of the following words correctly: through, though, thought, chough, plough, hiccough, lough.” John responded with that withering look that can only be generated by a teenager and replied: “you say this as if it were a good thing.”

Okay, so maybe it’s not an unadulterated positive, and sure, non-native speakers have been observed literally tearing their hair while attempting to learn English.  But in no other language will you encounter linguistic miracles such as rapscallion, hornswaggle, subcutaneous, widdershins, discombobulated, and tintinnabulation.

As with so much in life, you gotta take the crookeds with the straights.

In that spirit, enjoy. To get the full effect, read this out loud:

Sweater Weather: A Love Song to Language
By Sharon Bryan

Never better, mad as a hatter,
right as rain, might and main,
hanky panky, hot toddy,

hoity-toity, cold shoulder,
bowled over, rolling in clover,
low blow, no soap, hope

against hope, pay the piper,
liar liar, pants on fire,
high and dry, shoo-fly pie,

fiddle-faddle, fit as a fiddle,
sultan of swat, muskrat
ramble, fat and sassy,

flimflam, happy as a clam,
cat’s pajamas, bee’s knees,
peas in a pod, pleased as punch,

pretty as a picture, nothing much,
lift the latch, double Dutch,
helter-skelter, hurdy-gurdy,

early bird, feathered friend,
dumb cluck, buck up,
shilly-shally, willy-nilly,

roly-poly, holy moly,
loose lips sink ships,
spitting image, nip in the air,

hale and hearty, part and parcel,
upsy-daisy, lazy days,
maybe baby, up to snuff,

flibbertigibbet, honky-tonk,
spic and span, handyman,
cool as a cucumber, blue moon,

high as a kite, night and noon,
love me or leave me, seventh heaven,
up and about, over and out.

To readers unmoved by the delightful music of the above, it is not irrelevant to note that in no other language will you discover so many ways to say “nonsense”: rigmarole and poppycock, folderol and flapdoodle, balderdash and bunk. Gobbledygook. Malarkey. And those are just the G-rated options.

For those of you who loved Bryan’s poem, keep these terms close to hand anyway: you may need them between now and November 8.  In no other language could you observe some of the codswallop offered during a political campaign and cry “I call shenanigans! Shenanigans, I say!”

Half a dozen pronunciations of ough seem a small price to pay for that.

 

Traveling Mercies

Anne Lamott writes of her son’s eighth birthday: the two of them are on the beach, building a sandcastle that morphs into an elaborate “birthday altar,” decorated with feathers and shells and clothespin people standing guard.

Eventually, it is time to go. Lamott writes:

“No!” he wailed. “We can’t. What about . . . our creation? We can’t just leave it here. We have to stay and protect it. We’ve worked so hard on it! The waves will come and wash it away.”

“Honey,” I said, “it was never meant to be permanent. You must have known the tide would come back in.” . . . He walked away from me and the altar, world weary, shuffling with dejection, head down. Sam, I wanted to explain, making the altar was a way to celebrate, to honor you today. The fact that it’s going to wash away heightens how wonderful our making it was. The altar didn’t hold as much animating spirit as our making it did, the gathering, the choices. It’s like: we made it, we love it—oops, it’s gone. But the best part is still there.”

What Anne Lamott expresses here helps me to understand why Lisa and I have always preferred to invest in experiences as opposed to things (though don’t get me wrong: by any standard of measure, we still possess an unforgiveable amount of stuff).  We live in a house and drive cars more modest than we could actually afford, spending the money instead on beach house rentals and airplane tickets. We have material enough, Lord knows, and our memories of Cape Hatteras and San Francisco and Puerto Rico will endure long after the vehicles and furniture have fallen apart and been hauled away.

Some of this philosophy seems to have rubbed off on the kids: from February through June of this year, there wasn’t a month during which one of the two wasn’t in Eastern Europe. Itineraries included Moscow, Sophia, St Petersburg, Budapest, Krakow, Prague, and Tallinn. When not digging out from under mountains of jealousy, I was bursting with pride and overwhelmed with worry. For 16 weeks, all I had to do to get really terrified was to think of Jen and John thousands of miles away. And for 16 weeks all I had to do to be filled with love and joy was to think of Jen and John thousands of miles away.

Lamott has also written that the two best prayers she knows are “Help me, help me, help me” and “thank you, thank you, thank you.” I get this.  I often pray them both at the same time.

This is a week of transitions. We delivered John to Christopher Newport University this weekend to commence his sophomore year. And tomorrow our friend Sophie Nachman departs to begin a year-long adventure in Morocco. By coincidence, Lisa and I met 31 years ago tomorrow, beginning our own journey together. This confluence of dates has me thinking about transience. The word derives from the Latin, trans, meaning “across” and the verb ire, meaning “to go.” Sophie and John are both transient, passing through places this year (Newport News, Rabat) where they will not stay.  And of course in a larger sense, we are all transient, all just passing through.

The book from which I drew Lamott’s description of Sam’s eighth birthday she called Traveling Mercies. We wish those mercies on loved ones about to depart: have a wonderful time, be careful, safe journey home. Of the coming year, I would say to John and Sophie: remember the animating spirit will be in the making of it. Sojourns are not meant to be permanent. Eventually the tide will return. “We made it, we love it—oops, it’s gone.”

To Lisa: thank you for the experience of these 31 years. We have learned together, slowly and sometimes painfully, that everything changes. Nothing stays the same. But through it all, what we have gained and lost, the best part endures. Traveling mercies to us both, as we roll into year 32.

Traveling mercies, John. Traveling mercies, Sophie.

Have a wonderful time, be careful, safe journey home.

Outrage

“Justice will not be served until those who are unaffected are as outraged as those who are”
–Benjamin Franklin.

I am there.

On Tuesday, Alton Sterling is shot and killed by police officers as he was lying on the ground, apparently contained and subdued.

“. . . wise men at their end know dark is right / Because their words had forked no lightning . . .”

On Wednesday, Philandro Castle is shot dead while complying with a police officer’s request to produce identification.

“Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright / Their frail deeds might have danced . . .”

On Thursday, five police officers are killed in Dallas. One of the snipers reportedly said that he was specifically aiming for white police officers.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way.

Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas’ poem “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night” is about his dying father, but like all great poems, it carries ramifications beyond that personal context.

Who could be blamed today for despairing of the light? When could there be a better time to recall the warnings in the words of this poem? Who will grieve the swift passage of the time and yet do nothing in the time we have, looking back at frail deeds and wishing they had done more? Who will remain silent then regret that their words did not light up the sky like lightning?

The repeated lines of this poem amount to an admonition and a prayer:

May we not go gently into the night, dear God.
Let us rage, rage, against the dying of the light.

Time and time again, after the mass shootings and the stunning murders, commentators and pundits despair at the gun violence that has become an “almost daily occurrence.”

It’s time to delete the “almost,” folks.

We are there.

“Returning violence for violence multiplies violence, adding a deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness, only love can do that.”
–Martin Luther King, Jr.

What we need

When the folks who write history books get to June, 2016, they will not begin their paragraphs with “Best. Month. Ever.”

A lone gunman killed 49 innocent people in Florida this month. England voted to leave the EU (based in part on lies or exaggerations offered by the Leave faction), throwing world markets into chaos. The Donald Trump campaign launched a website called “Lying Crooked Hillary.” And now, over 40 travelers have been slain in Istanbul, victims of the latest terrorist attack.

For the past 6 or 8 weeks, I have been suffering what Jimmy Carter might have called a Crisis of Confidence. Every time I sit down in front of the laptop, poised to offer another nugget on my modest website, I’ve found myself wondering what in the world I am doing. When I consider all the truly important problems, from gun violence and hate crime to the global refugee crisis and our toxic political climate (and not even considering the everyday crises of poverty and hunger and disease and illiteracy), I ask myself “why am I writing about poetry? Honestly, who gives a damn?”

I only watch daytime TV when I am at the gym. Usually, I am tuned to CNN or ESPN, but when commercials pop up on both those stations, I’ll dip into the talk shows. Just this week, I was looking in at one of these shows (I have no idea which one), in which they were playing a game with the audience. One of the two hosts would make a statement, and audience members would raise one of two little signs: either “I have done that” or “I have never done that.”

Here is one of the statements: “I have checked my smart phone right after making love.” An irrefutable majority of the audience members raised their “I have done that” signs. It isn’t every day that I am stopped dead on my elliptical machine. As I sit here this morning, I am thinking “if intimacy with someone you love is not going to pull you away from your technology for longer than 20 minutes, then what chance does a Shakespeare sonnet have?”

In a related development, this week I also became aware of a new (for me) acronym: FOMA. It stands for “fear of missing anything” or “fear of missing out,” and it describes one reason for the repeated, obsessive need to be constantly checking our phones or ipads or laptops so that we do not fall behind in seeing the lastest posting on Facebook or Instagram or Twitter.

Technology has its place, don’t get me wrong. It is not lost on me that this blog would not be possible without it. But when its use becomes a true addiction, when every posting is greedily sought like the next “hit” that it is, . . . well, then Houston, we have a problem. Or I, at least, have a problem, because in the avalanche of information, in the endless flash flooding of entertainment available flowing from every screen near you (and there is always a screen near you; you can’t even pump gas now in peace), poetry simply doesn’t stand a chance.

I sit here pondering the very real possibility that in the context of human suffering on a truly global scale, in the context of a ubiquitous digital drug that fosters a 30-second attention span, poetry is a meaningless, trivial artifact offered to an audience who will not take the time to read it anyway. Poetry requires patience. It needs silence. Poet Marc Polonsky once wrote that “you cannot be in a hurry and read poetry at the same time.” To do so would be “like trying to hear your own heartbeat over the roar of a jet engine.” Or like trying to hear the heartbeat of your lover over the siren call of your nearby smart phone.

My comfort came to me this morning in the form of a poem, a lesson not lost on me. This glimmer of hope is called “What we need,” by David Budbill:

The Emperor
his bullies
and henchmen
terrorize the world
every day,

which is why,
every day

we need

a little poem
of kindness

a small song
of peace

a brief moment
of joy.

Okay, I am breathing again. Can I save the world through writing about poetry? No. But I truly and honestly believe that without poetry . . . or art, literature, music . . . there would not be much left worth saving. So please: when you sicken of death and destruction, when you finally, desperately need to hear your own heartbeat over the roar of the social engines, remember that poetry is there, waiting for you. Some words of kindness; a song of peace; or a moment of joy is exactly what you need.

The First Green of Spring

I have a new love, and his name is David Budbill

Born in Cleveland in 1940, this poet has resided for decades on Judevine Mountain in northern Vermont.  As you might expect, much of his poetry is deeply connected to the land and the cycle of the seasons.  His language is vivid and direct, and I love his sense of humor.

Maybe it’s because we are getting our first farm bags from Granite Springs, filled with chard and kale and lettuce, but I think this spritely poem by David Budhill is a burst of joy for a spring day:

The First Green of Spring

Out walking in the swamp picking cowslip, marsh marigold,
this sweet first green of spring. Now sautéed in a pan melting
to a deeper green than ever they were alive, this green, this life,

harbinger of things to come. Now we sit at the table munching
on this message from the dawn which says we and the world
are alive again today, and this is the world’s birthday. And

even though we know we are growing old, we are dying, we
will never be young again, we also know we’re still right here
now, today, and, my oh my! don’t these greens taste good.

You see what I mean? The persona of this poem is perfectly aware of the passing of time: we are growing old and we are going to die. But notice that the words “alive” and “life” are repeated several times, and we as readers are encouraged to sink into the moment: here, now, today.

The pure joy of that unexpected exclamation at the end is what makes the poem for me: yes, yes, we will never be young again, but it’s spring! The world is sweet and green again, and my oh my! doesn’t life taste good?

Anniversary

April 18, 2011 was a Monday. The Monday of Holy Week, as a matter of fact.

I had spent the weekend preoccupied with a Tenebrae liturgy that was about to go into evening rehearsals. I had a text to revise, music to finalize, and powerpoint slides to complete. I also had a doctor’s appointment that Monday, to which I honestly gave barely a thought.

I was 50 years old then and, as per protocol, earlier in the year had endured a complete physical. My primary caregiver was concerned that my PSA level was slightly elevated. “Not particularly high,” she said reassured me, “but enough so we’d better check it out.”

What a pain in the neck! A subsequent visit to the urologist concluded with a recommendation to have a biopsy, just to be on the safe side, a procedure that in and of itself came with some discomfort and risk.

Sigh.  Back to my doctor. “You should have the procedure,” she said, “if it’s my brother, my dad, I would say have the biopsy.”  Okay, fine.  Swearing to myself that I would never have a complete physical again as long as I lived, I scheduled the biopsy.

At no point during this weeks-long process was I ever particularly concerned. I knew what we were testing for, but cancer was something that happened to other people. The elevated PSA aside, I had just received the proverbial clean bill of health. I felt great. And prostate cancer? Gimme a break.  That’s an old man’s disease.

I waited impatiently in a small, nondescript exam room, like millions of them across the planet. We’ve all seen them, all occupied them. All received good news in them . . . and bad.

“Unfortunately, we found a little bit of cancer, but I think we caught it in time. I’m going to recommend surgery, probably robotic as the least invasive way to do it.” 

And just like that my life changed.

An avalanche of questions: Are you sure the results are accurate? What do we do now? What are the treatment options? How do we tell the kids? Who else should know?

Why had God done this to me?

It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together, and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

“Praying,” by Mary Oliver

Later that same week, I participated in the overnight vigil with Our Lord. As I walked into the church at 5 AM on Friday morning, the world felt sullen, dark, and silent. I spent sixty minutes in a small room, candlelit, filled with the fragrance of Easter Lilies. I tried to patch together a few words. I listened for a voice that never came.

When I left an hour later, though, birdsong filled the air. Though I continued to struggle—for years—with my grief and anger, here I heard the voice I was hoping for. As I stood on Hayes Road watching the darkness fade into light, I took the first tiny step toward Oliver’s “doorway / into thanks.”

Whatever I would experience in the time to come (and on that naïve morning I had no clue what lay ahead), I would not go through it by myself.

During the five years since, I have been many things, but I have never been alone. My wife, my children, the incomparable community of Church of the Holy Family, readers of my book, doctors, counselors, and colleagues have helped me learn to live with this “little bit of cancer.” To you all, I am grateful beyond words.

April 18, 2014 was a Friday. Good Friday, as a matter of fact.  Early that afternoon, I finished the first complete draft of I Pray in Poems.  Here is some of what I drafted for that last chapter:

“These poems teach us that spirits soar when we refuse to be nailed back down into our finite existence, our inevitable fears and failings, or by the heaviness, sickness, and disease inherent in our material bodies. Flawed, faulty, and fallen, we have yet the capacity to love, and we cherish hope. Over and over in these poems we see these qualities represented by upward movement, images of daybreak, by new life and rebirth.  Even in our darkest moments of bitterness or despair, our poets remind us that we have reason to rejoice and assure us that miracles are common things. Expect them . . . like Noah.  Go forth.  Seek them out.”

Whatever painful anniversary you might mark, I pray it carries with it also some reminder of joy or blessings.  Some reason to rejoice and to go forth.  Cherish hope.  Seek out your miracles.

anyone lived in a pretty how town: reader comments

Thanks for all the folks who responded to my request for comments!

Ann writes: “I know nothing about poetry, but I love the ones that paint hazy landscapes that seem just a tiny bit clearer with each reading. This brings me images of time passing while folks sleepwalk along through the years…pleasantly enough… Yet they are unintentionally, and steadily, burying their childhood hopes, wishes, “ifs” and “dreams.”

Ann has captured the backdrop described by the persona in cummings’ poem: a town in which through the years women and men are born, live, and die. Along the way, they “sowed their isn’t they reaped their same” (indicating a certain conformity?); and they “said their nevers they slept their dreams” (suggesting resignation or acceptance of the dreams that will never come true?). Nice job, Ann! Reading a poem more than once—always a good decision.

Against this backdrop unfolds a story of two specific characters, enigmatically named “anyone” and “noone.” Anyone appears to be something of a nonconformist (while the townspeople “did their dance,” for instance, anyone “danced his did”), and the women and men of the town “cared for anyone not at all.”

Gradually, we learn that “noone loved him more by more;” “she laughed his joy she cried his grief,” and “anyone’s any was all to her.” After a life together (I think), one day “anyone died i guess,” and noone “stooped to kiss his face.” Eventually, noone dies as well, and “busy folk buried them side by side.”

The final four lines are a near-repeat of stanza 2; this indicates to me that the lives of the men and women of the town continue through the routine cycles. As Ann says above, they sleepwalk through their wishes, “if’s” and dreams.

Not so for anyone and noone. While the people of the town “slept their dream[s],” noone and anyone still “dream their sleep.” The phrase “more by more” near the poem’s conclusion echoes the earlier line in which we first learn that noone loves anyone; this repetition could suggest that, even after death, their love grows and deepens.

Another reader writes: “I laugh and cry freely whenever I read this poem. . . . It is so special, so affirming, so ‘earth by april / wish by spirit and if by yes.’” Agreed!  I am struck by the phrase “earth by april,” a reminder both that the couple are buried and also that in spring (the last season mentioned in the poem) we expect new life to emerge from the earth. The hope for something beyond death feels affirmed by the line: “wish by spirit and if by yes.”

One final comment: “Why did e.e. cummings have to make the poem so difficult to read?!”
Fair question. A slight re-arrangement of the first two lines likely reveals what the poet wished to share with his readers:

anyone lived in a pretty how town / (with up so floating many bells down)
becomes
how anyone lived in a pretty town / (with so many bells floating up [and] down)

The tale of anyone’s life through and beyond time is the subject of anyone lived in a pretty how town.  Through creative word order and usage (verbs used as nouns, for instance), readers are forced to slow down, look closely, and pay attention to a story that otherwise might be overlooked. It makes something that is ordinary into something unique and beautiful.

In Arthur Miller’s play Death of a Salesman, Linda Loman defends her husband, Willy, a seemingly unimportant salesman whose dreams of success have never materialized. “He’s a human being,” she cries, “So attention must be paid.”

Like Miller’s play, anyone lived in a pretty how town, a story of two other seemingly unimportant people, offers a story worth telling, and cummings writes it so that attention must be paid.

Anyone and noone sleep and dream, side by side, and as they wait, life in the town goes on: the bells sound the hours; the seasons progress; folks sow and reap; they come and go. Overhead stars cross the sky, the moon sets, the sun rises, and the spring rain offers its annual intimation of resurrection. Life and faith and poetry and Happy Eastertide to all!

anyone lived in a little how town

I have been debating with myself. A poem has been floating around in my head for ages.

I love it, but it’s not an easy poem, and not one I’ll pretend I can understand or explain completely. Even if I don’t understand every syllable, though, I know it’s about life and time and hope and maybe even faith.  So here goes.  Stay with me, now.

The poem is called anyone lived in a little how town, by e.e. cummings.

I’ve been debating because I fear that some readers will get about four lines in and think “this is exactly the reason why I don’t like poetry.”  And then stop reading. Keep the faith, y’all.

Let’s try something different: first, read the poem more than once; then, please respond with a question or comment. If you are a confident extrovert like me, please feel free to hit reply and post your thought here on the site for all to see. For those of you with more introverted tendencies, please contact me at dwworster@aol.com.

I won’t offer any more guidance than that. Just write what you think.

As soon as I hit a critical mass of questions and comments, I’ll write another post addressing some of them. In other words, let’s try a little online give and take about the poem and see how it goes:

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did.

Women and men (both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed (but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone’s any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then) they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men (both dong and ding)
summer winter autumn spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain