A mellow sort of a day today. Quiet. Neither very hot nor very cold. Neither wholly still nor too windy. Mellow. The garden shimmers in the ripeness of late summer. As does my stilled – even sleepy at times – soul. And it’s at times like these that the ‘communion of poets’ come into sight. Glad remembrances sound within. Poems clasped to the heart long ago come again into late summer’s quiet light.
Love means to look at yourself
The way one looks at distant things
For you are only one thing among many.
And whoever sees that way heals his heart,
Without knowing it, from various ills –
A bird and a tree say to him: Friend.
Then he wants to use himself and things
So that they stand in the glow of ripeness.
It doesn’t matter whether he knows what he serves:
Who serves best doesn’t always understand.