Sunday Muse

“Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am that Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.
I, the Rock, I, the River, I, the Tree
I am yours — your passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, but if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes
Upon this day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.”

— excerpted from “The Pulse of the Morning” by Maya Angelou

Sunday Muse

Snowflakes

Out of the bosom of the Air.
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent and soft and slow
Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels

This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Sunday Muse

Dixon and Long families at the Cliffs; Grandma 3rd from left, back row

“The men and women and children who live in Appalachia have no sourness about them and though they are shy toward outsiders, they will wave to you if you drive by in your car whether they know your face or not.  Most would probably rather not meet anyone new, but once they are used to you, you will find them bringing you bags of tomatoes from their gardens and sometimes a cherry cobbler.  Most of them are thinkers, because these mountains inspire that, but they could never find the words to tell you of these thoughts they have.  They talk to you of their corn or their cows instead and they keep the thoughts to themselves.”
— from ‘Appalachia – The Voices of Sleeping Birds’ by Cynthia Rylant