Wednesday, September 13, 2017



The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.

—W. B. Yeats


You come and go.
The doors swing closed ever more gently, almost without a shudder. 
Of all those who move through the quiet houses, 
you are the quietest. 

We become so accustomed to you, we no longer look up when
your shadow falls over the book we are reading and makes it glow.
For all things sing you: at times we hear them more clearly. 

Often when I imagine you your wholeness cascades into many shapes. 
You run like a herd of luminous deer and I am dark,
I am forest. 

You are a wheel at which I stand, whose dark spokes sometimes
catch me up, revolve me nearer to the center. 

Then all the work I put my hand to 
widens from turn to turn. 

–Rainer Maria Rilke


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