Posted by: Peadar Ban | January 15, 2018

Reading Augustine

He says memory is immense; nooks

Crannies, caverns, cubby holes beyond

Number contain all we have done, all

We have seen, thought, experienced.

Can I see the soul of a tree, its memory,

Or know it through and through from green bud

To heart wood; quiet, sturdy at the core;

Rough barked, new leafed; wide spreading slender branches

Snaking out and up to the waiting sky?

Is each its own, as myself I am?  Some

Do say trees are; visited by creatures

Who know them. Generous with shelter, food.

Well known so throughout the wood, down the days

That when they fall earth shudders and all come

To marvel, mourn and whisper of the fallen one.

And, does receiving earth promise soft rest?

Where is the river’s soul which endless flows

To the sea in every season; wild thing, soft ribbon

Never still, never same?  Angry threat each stormy

Spring.  Asleep beneath Winter’s frosty throw.

Hosting sleds and skaters on the coldest days.

Open to splashing laughing children when

Summer heat drives them to it’s sand banked shore.

Surely the river, as the tree, it’s woods

And all around, has personality?

Whose? Whom do I know when at last I know

You, and them in You?  Help me, then, to know!


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