2 hours ago
The Peace
Ran into Wendell Berry
in my sleep, we talked all night.
He says it’s peaceful, quiet now
in his “permanent world”
beyond the chaparral of bitterness
that passes for a life. The farmer finds himself
at ease, he lays back in the leaves beside Walt Whitman
with his chest wide open, spitting seeds
and dreams. His head is crowned with nothing
but the whippooring of chickadees
who come to tell him everything he’s missed
since leaving home—how high the dog jumped
when a firework lit up July, the expression
on that astronaut’s face, looking at his child—unlike the angels,
who in their eternal wisdom must have known
this place with its big, booming voice
was never really it.
Ran into Wendell Berry
in my sleep, we talked all night.
He says it’s peaceful, quiet now
in his “permanent world”
beyond the chaparral of bitterness
that passes for a life. The farmer finds himself
at ease, he lays back in the leaves beside Walt Whitman
with his chest wide open, spitting seeds
and dreams. His head is crowned with nothing
but the whippooring of chickadees
who come to tell him everything he’s missed
since leaving home—how high the dog jumped
when a firework lit up July, the expression
on that astronaut’s face, looking at his child—unlike the angels,
who in their eternal wisdom must have known
this place with its big, booming voice
was never really it.