 by Roman Mesyancev I'm doing more writing over at the web design for musicians and creatives site, and wanted to reach out a hand to you... but to even say anything now feels drained of meaning — a platitude . Remembering that it happened once,
We cannot turn away the thought, As we go out, cold, to our barns Toward the long night’s end, that we Ourselves are living in the world It happened in when it first happened, at we ourselves, opening a stall (A latch thrown open countless times Before), might find them breathing there, Foreknown: the child in the straw, the mother kneeling over Him, the husband standing in belief He scarcely can believe, in light at lights them from no source we see, An April morning’s light, the air Around them joyful as a choir. We stand with one hand on the door, Looking into another world at is this world, the pale daylight Coming just as before, our chores To do, the cattle all awake, Our own white frozen breath hanging In front of us; and we are here As we have never been before, Sighted as not before, our place Holy, although we knew it not. ~ Wendell Berry Comments are closed.
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