It is foolish
to let a young redwood
grow next to a house.
Even in this
you will have to choose
That great calm being,
This clutter of soup pots and books--
Already the first branch-tips brush at the window.
Softly, calmly, immensity taps at your life.
Slaves probably slurped these, wet and salty. The water (though surrounded by marshy savannah/grass inlets) must have been so clean of pollution in 1740.
The light meter had trouble calculating so much dappled info.
war had entered here, voices of love and hate; worship, song, an end of slavery; babies cried, hurricanes, droughts, and a forest fire in 1886 took the roof of this bone-white chapel shell of oyster shells.
The year 1740 seemed to reach through me with all its 270 years since. In a moment it felt I, small flesh, I was the one crumbling--and an oyster shell suddenly seemed strong-wisdom, respectable. Ancient. Bone of my bone.
The sea incarnate.
Compared to me.
Yes. The light was watching through everything, breathing through the moss, offering itself as living luminous prayer among the thriving, throbbing green.
Peace to all who enter here.