Quiver

Quiver January 3, 2011

In the early light, complete stillness.

In the snow, two remaining leaves. At

first I think their quiver is because of

a small wind, but watching dawn creep

toward us, I realize they are trembling

because of the light. Nothing else moves.

I watch long enough to remember that

it is bowing to the sun during our night

that brings day. I stop, put down my

growing list and all I work toward.

It isn’t yet day, but the ground, the

snow, the broken limbs are coming

alive though nothing moves. There

is a forest inside that has its seasons

where everything grows by bowing

to the light. Why don’t I practice this

bowing? Now it is day and things are

beginning to move, squirrels, cars, the

furnace is coughing, the coffee perking.

And I don’t know what it is we need:

to work toward or to bow and quiver.

"Monet was nearsighted and painted what he saw."

Stacks of Wheat
"It just happen many in Hebron went to the burial place for Sarah this weekend ..."

Grief
"Mark, your remark about the chord from Tokyo puts me in mind of a similar ..."

For Keith Jarrett
"Thank you, Mark, for posting this incredibly beautiful and heartwarming poem. Blessings, Laraine"

The Work of Care

Browse Our Archives

Close Ad