Monday, April 04, 2016

The dawn, as yet . . .

Rose names are a little funny. In Idaho, we have a pink rose called
Barbara Streisand. We read that she insisted on a rose having a fragrance
if she was going to allow then to name it for her. 
But this, rose, Mr. Lincoln was named for Honest Abe
without his permission. and really has very little fragrance.
However, we think it is one of the best red roses
and the buds have this truly beautiful, urnlike form.


Some things we believe cannot be redeemed.
But in a valley the Railroad finally forgot,
the silted sluggish ditch we would not eat fish from
runs again, a river, rilled as before
by clear water, not black. Grass grows back
between tracks and rails. Limestone spalls
hews from the mountain heal into soil.
Stumps heaped with live coals, split, and winched out,
in spring frail a new circlet of green.
Panthers are seen. A son is born blue, and lives.
Some things we believe cannot be redeemed,
but the dawn, as yet, is diurnal. The woods keep
a hushed vigil. then rustle with life we cannot see;
small ponds well from the ground when we sleep.

Rebecca Foust

Paradise Drive; poems. Press 53, 2015, page 82.

Here is another sonnet, very hopeful, from this poet 
so new to me. As much as I like sonnets, 
I have never tried to write one. Have you??

I am on Facebook with an group called American Rivers
which frequently publishes pictures of rivers that have been. 
or are being, restored. There are still some things to be happy 
about amidst all the environmental bad news.

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