The weather is changing…in fifteen minutes, I had collected up my bag of litter and Max and I were off to enjoy the shift in temperature and remarkable scenery. A woman stood on the ridge looking, I suppose, wondering what I was up to. Two pigeons strutted about the east side of the glassy pool of open water, two muskrats slid, slippery, into the dark water on the west rim. I never cease to be in love with this small bit of the world. A jet black crow dipped, unbalanced, with nesting material already spilling out of its beak. Spring is just around the corner.
Max was resting in the sunshine…I feel so grateful for these warm summer-autumn days…for the wandering natural areas when everything is so sun-licked and magical. This is my favourite time of year and this is my terrific and loyal companion.
A black eyed dog he called at my door
The black eyed dog he called for more
A black eyed dog he knew my name
A black eyed dog he knew my name
A black eyed dog
A black eyed dog.
I’m growing old and I wanna go home
I’m growiing old and I don’t wanna know
I’m growing old and I wanna go home.
A black eyed dog he called at my door
A black eyed dog he called for more.
My precious Peanut-the-cat and I think about companionship…I think about the notion of company. I remember that at this time of year I would always think of a poem I wanted to share during my first english class. Usually the poem I chose was written by Stanley Kunitz. I think that his words are transformative. I found this poem and others here.
When I read this poem…and then listen to it…I can not help but think of my Mom & Dad. It is with gratitude that I am able to skype with them every evening. I love you both.
from Passing Through: The Later Poems, New and Selected by Stanley Kunitz (W. W. Norton, 1995)
Touch Me
by Stanley Kunitz Summer is late, my heart.
Words plucked out of the air
some forty years ago
when I was wild with love
and torn almost in two
scatter like leaves this night
of whistling wind and rain.
It is my heart that’s late,
it is my song that’s flown.
Outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
One season only,
_________and it’s done.
So let the battered old willow
thrash against the windowpanes
and the house timbers creak.
Darling, do you remember
the man you married? Touch me,
remind me who I am.
