mortar and pestle

Responding line by line to Mary Oliver’s A dream of trees

the bold italic is my response to the original line

There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees, that shed crystals in the winter morns

A quiet house, some green and modest acres, near the milky way

A little way from every troubling town, and closer to the constellations

A little way from factories, schools, laments. taking me away from myself when I need to be turned inside out

I would have time, I thought, and time to spare, pouring lemonade as I sit on the window ledge
With only streams and birds for company, grateful for seasons and the quirks that they bring to life 
To build out of my life a few wild stanzas, that reverberate like a prayer word
And then it came to me, that so was death, I recognized the desire for relief
A little way away from everywhere, with no need or ability to initiate contact

There is a thing in me still dreams of trees, immersing in the afternoon shadows they throw

But let it go. Homesick for moderation, they stay teetering on the edge until the fall

Half the worlds artists shrink or fall away, sometimes emerging on the other side shaggy yet invincible

If any find solution, let him tell it, the classic mistake life makes is to not give credit where it is due

Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation, for all the hurt that was crushed fine in the daily rotation of the pestle in the mortar

Where, as the times implore our true involvement, involvement strung in the fluorescent colors  that show through real tears

The blades of every crisis point the way, every crisis opens the compass to its true north

I would it were not so, but so it is, it is true that I break down into a million pieces when you sing in vulnerable tones

Who ever made music of a mild day? almost like happiness decided to  overthrow misery in a coup

 

NaPoWriMo 2018

Responding to a known poem. take each line and  write your line in response or continuation and do the same for the rest of the poem

Dream of Trees by Mary Oliver

There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town,
A little way from factories, schools, laments.
I would have time, I thought, and time to spare,
With only streams and birds for company.
To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.
And then it came to me, that so was death,
A little way away from everywhere.

There is a thing in me still dreams of trees,
But let it go. Homesick for moderation,
Half the worlds artists shrink or fall away.
If any find solution, let him tell it.
Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation
Where, as the times implore our true involvement,
The blades of every crisis point the way.

I would it were not so, but so it is.
Who ever made music of a mild day?