I’m present in my space at home
Existing in this moment
Ready for a blissful practice
Grabbing my mat
Almost ready to roll it out
Glancing at the floor
Movement catching my eye
Six legs, tiny body
Walking across the vast tan desert that is my carpet
Not a spider
But not sure what
Fear creeping up from within me
An instinct to squish
I’m about to lie down in that space
How dare another presence occupy it
Take a deep breath
In and out
Let it be
Is this creature really hurting me?
I begin my practice
Standing a distance away
The peaceful presence
Slowly walking away….
A Cycle of Life Poem
As seasons come and go,
leaves turn from green to shades of gold…
until the strongest fade to brown
before they drift and become the ground.
Winter will nurture what it has taken away,
restoring the earth until the day…
when Spring itself renews
and the cycle of life continues.
My winter will come, but so will Spring,
because life is what love brings…
When the geese are flying south
And the sky is grey, my dears,
Close your eyes, and lift your nose;
Listen with your careful ears.
Feel the winter coming on,
Hear it in the crackling trees;
Note the crisping, quivering wind
Sharply snapping at their leaves.
Feel it on the windowpanes –
Chilly glass on fingertips –
Mark the biting of the air,
Heated breath on numbing lips.
See it in the early eves,
In the glowing sunset where
Shadows of the naked trees
Rattle in the biting air.
Watch the nuthatch and the wren;
They know it is time once more
To abandon careful nests,
As they’ve done each year before.
Let it rest upon your face,
Let it reach and pull you in.
See how pretty nature is
When she ushers winter in.
Letters swallow themselves in seconds.
Notes friends tied to the doorknob,
transparent scarlet paper,
sizzle like moth wings,
marry the air.
So much of any year is flammable,
lists of vegetables, partial poems.
Orange swirling flame of days,
so little is a stone.
Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,
an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.
I begin again with the smallest numbers.
Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,
only the things I didn’t do
crackle after the blazing dies.
Hear the sledges with the bells —
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells —
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.
Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still half-perfect? Let me keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,
which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,
which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.
Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,
A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;
Blinks but an hour or two; and then,
A blood-red orange, sets again.
Before the stars have left the skies,
At morning in the dark I rise;
And shivering in my nakedness,
By the cold candle, bathe and dress.
Close by the jolly fire I sit
To warm my frozen bones a bit;
Or with a reindeer-sled, explore
The colder countries round the door.
When to go out, my nurse doth wrap
Me in my comforter and cap;
The cold wind burns my face, and blows
Its frosty pepper up my nose.
Black are my steps on silver sod;
Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;
And tree and house, and hill and lake,
Are frosted like a wedding cake.
Source ~ http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/robert_louis_stevenson/poems/2167.html