grasses, fiddlehead and fern,
as I was caring
for young children by a pond.
Angelic, her wing span
fanned its gentle wave
across the shore
and no one noticed.
No one applauded or knelt
upon the grass.
But the children, eyes and mouths
as round as moons,
stopped and held her for that moment,
watched as she preened
leaving them one feather
in the midst of spring green.
~Jesse LoVasco, from Native
Every day, there is so much I miss seeing,
sounds I fail to hear, a nurturing softness that eludes me,
all because I am wrapped in my own worries.
The wonders I miss may never come my way again,
so Lord, give me the eyes and ears and hands of a child
seeing and hearing and touching everything for the first time.
To notice the beauty that surrounds me,
let me marvel at a Creation
that started as mere Word and Thought and Hope,
left behind like a feather for me to hold on to.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –
I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.
Deep in the tarn the mountain
A mighty phantom gleamed,
She leaned out into the midnight,
And the summer wind went by,
The scent of the rose on its silken wing
And a song its sigh.
And, in depths below, the waters
Answered some mystic height,
As a star stooped out of the depths above
With its lance of light.
And she thought, in the dark and the fragrance,
How vast was the wonder wrought
If the sweet world were but the beauty born
In its Maker’s thought.
~Harriet Prescott Spofford
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