The spirits of the air

 

Here's a poem by William Blake:

 

"The spirits of the air live on the smells

Of fruit; and joy, with pinions light, roves round

The gardens, or sits singing in the trees."

Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat;

Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak

Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load."

-   William Blake, To Autumn

 

and here's one from Muriel Rukeyser which popped up on my Instagram page this morning, and which I took as a message from the other shore:

Then     by Muriel Rukeyser

 

When I am dead, even then,

I will still love you , I will wait in these poems,

When I am dead, even then

I am still listening to you.

I will still be making poems for you

out of silence;

silence will be falling into that silence,

It is building music.

 

Evergreen Cemetery, Gettysburg     photo by Christine Muldowney