November 2, 2006

What We Need Is Here

The Wild Geese

Horseback on Sunday morning,
harvest over, we taste persimmon
and wild grape, sharp sweet
of summer's end. In time's maze
over the fall fields, we name names
that went west from here, names
that rest on graves. We open
a persimmon seed to find the tree
that stands in promise,
pale, in the seed's marrow.
Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear,
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye
clear. What we need is here.

~ Wendell Berry


isaiah said...

Here, now...

Thanks for the poem, for the echo, for the reminder.

blissfully yours,

Meredith said...

A friend read this poem to me recently. It was late evening, candles on the window sills, a slight fragrance of incense... very quiet, very soft voices...
The words of the poem entered me with a delicate touch. I felt I could taste the persimmons and wild grapes, I imagined the grave yard, and the cornfield maze. I remembered the sound of geese... I could see inside the persimmon to the seed. There is a certain beauty here, in these ordinary things, which also stand in promise. Ahh, a beautiful reverie.

This is heaven, right here, right now. This is a very full life. What we need is here.