The past two days have been gorgeously wild and windy and this poem by my friend Katie, a marvelous writer and human being, say it all so well that it seemed foolish to not just re-blog it here. Thanks Katie.
The Language of Wind
16 Apr
This entry was published on April 16, 2015 at 8:21 am and is filed under Uncategorized.
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Still Learning To See 
What a lovely idea, John 🙂 Here’s one from Mary Oliver: http://www.poetseers.org/contemporary-poets/mary-oliver/mary-oliver-poems/when-death-comes/index.html
When Death Comes
When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When it’s over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world