A Longing for Trees and Brooks and Stones

 
 
i’m an old woman
often angry at the state of affairs
preferring admittedly love affairs
waning my life with whining
i think of Shakespeare’s “Now is the
winter of our discontent,” as if he knew
of this time in my life
 
and perhaps he also knew the heart of this old
crank of Woodland Hills, California
 who also has lived by and longs for his other words:
“And this, our life, exempt from public haunt,
finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
sermons in stones, and good in everything.”
 
 
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3 thoughts on “A Longing for Trees and Brooks and Stones

  1. This poem you made me think… how words are powerful and eternal as something Shakespeare said like he knew you! You in your own way do the same …to others but as all poets maybe you would never know!

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  2. Here’s the rest of the opening lines to Richard III:
    Now is the winter of our discontent
    Made glorious summer by this son of York;
    And all the clouds that low’r’d upon our house
    In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

    An uplifting perspective, but we stop at, remember, the opening line and its dismalness. But that line is so strong, so evocative, we’re still processing it while the play plays/reads on. Still, “his other words” followed immediately after.

    The final word of the fourth line should be whining (without the errant doubled-n), right?

    This poem is reminiscent to me of Wendell Berry’s, The Peace of Wild Things.

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    • Ed, thanks for the revision. I doubled my language when very young to include Portuguese which is written exactly as it sounds, which makes English impossible for me to spell. Thankfully, most errors are caught by computer programs. My partner is a whiz at spelling but alas she is away part of every week and I am left on my own. Thanks also for the “next lines,” which really for me actually add perspective to what I have written. It is my belief that a poem is not complete until someone reads or hears it and in so doing adds meaning. Paintings are like that too and even music. Thanks for placing this poem within any range of Wendell Berry, wonder man of poetry. The Peace of Wild Things is so very gorgeous.

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