“There’s nothing left to do but sing. I never could sing. But you play the instrument you have.”

For Poetry Monday:

Grace, Wendell Barry (ambiguous referent for “it”)

The woods is shining this morning.
Red, gold and green, the leaves
lie on the ground, or fall,
or hang full of light in the air still.
Perfect in its rise and in its fall, it takes
the place it has been coming to forever.
It has not hastened here, or lagged.
See how surely it has sought itself,
its roots passing lordly through the earth.
See how without confusion it is
all that it is, and how flawless
its grace is. Running or walking, the way
is the same. Be still. Be still.
“He moves your bones, and the way is clear.”


---L.

Subject quote from Gwilan’s Harp, Ursula K. Le Guin.