POEM #17: A Crowd of Hyacinths
One reason to be quiet and hold few opinions is we're all gonna die
“The mountain, too, has its thoughts. The forest birds whirring and chattering as the sun slips below the horizon are vocal organs of the rain forest itself.”
— David Abram, Spell of the Sensuous
I don’t know what to say about this little poem, other than it comes from the depths of my heart; it’s what I really think, and how I really think it.
And, after the (for me) expansive, horizon-to-horizon, definitely quixotic and possibly heretical interior idol-smashing leap of last week’s essay, Waving Farewell to Byzantium: Wild Orthodoxy as the Path to Another Future —an essay which finally weaves together strands I’ve been trying to weave together for the last decade, and an essay I dearly hope you’ll read, if you haven’t yet, and engage with in the comments, if so moved, so I can learn from you, and we can learn from each other: After all that lovely clamor, I want to withdraw to a very, very, very quiet place, one of the fountains of the wild spirit of Orthodoxy’s fundamental quietness, which is the remembrance of death.
Poem past the paywall.
I’ll see you in there.
And thank you for being a part of this.
love,
graham