The Peace of Wild Things

BY WENDELL BERRY

When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting with their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

winter walk

 Sleeping Misha

 Bernie preparing to nap.

Snoring Mimi

A few drawings with pen.We all seem to be in hibernation mode these days.

A wonderful description of getting lost in the reverie of nature. 

 "In the darkness round me flitted thousands of fire-flies and out beyond this pool of utter night flew by unceasingly the white foam of the rapids; sound there was none save their thunder.  The majesty and beauty of the scene fascinated me, and I stood leaning with my back against a rock pinnacle watching it.  Do not imagine it gave rise... to those complicated, poetical reflections natural beauty seems to bring out in other peoples minds.  ...I just lose all sense of human individuality, all memory of human life, with its grief and worry and doubt, and become part of the atmosphere.  If I have a heaven, that will be mine.... " Mary Kingsley Explorer 1862-1900.' Travels in West Africa'

        My interpretation,

Ink pen and Water Color

Winterberries

I brought in a sprig of Winterberry today,

so bright and crimson it was

against a black velvet pillow.

so beautiful is its shadow.

A small window of time, after the first snow, before they are taken for food I  bring in winterberry from my shrub behind the house. A male and female plant, they are interdependent on each other to bear fruit. 

Tiny beads of crimson joy.

Beauty is not caused. It is.      Emily Dickinson

Wonderment and creating stories. 

While driving in the country I saw some empty homes that reminded me of a poem I once read about an abandoned house.

 Homes that are abandoned,  particularly old farm houses, are aching to tell their stories.

 I no longer have the poem to quote from directly but here are some sketches I made and words that came to mind.

The curtains blowing out of a window propped open.
The stillness and quiet, made more poignant by the sound of blowing leaves and wind.