of consciousness, pattern
of formed sense
through which to look
into the wild
that is a pattern too,
but dark and flowing,
bearing along the little
shapes of the mind
as the river bears
a sash of some blinded house.
This windy day
on one of the panes
a blown seed, caught
in cobweb, beats and beats.
Window Poems
by Wendell Berry
Olive wanted to climb out the window last night hearing the cicadas buzz in the courtyard. I wonder if she knows how high we are. I wonder if she thinks she could fly on the sound of wings. I read a poem of Wendell Berry this morning followed by Rest in Peace. Reading his Window Poems is directly different now.
