Friday, August 19, 2011

Love Calls Us to the Things of This World

The eyes open to a cry of pulleys,
And spirited from sleep, the astounded soul
Hangs for a moment bodiless and simple
As false dawn.
Outside the open window
The morning air is all awash with angels.

Some are in bed-sheets, some are in blouses,
Some are in smocks: but truly there they are.
Now they are rising together in calm swells
Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they wear
With the deep joy of their impersonal breathing;

Now they are flying in place, conveying
The terrible speed of their omnipresence, moving
And staying like white water; and now of a sudden
They swoon down into so rapt a quiet
That nobody seems to be there.
The soul shrinks

From all that is about to remember,
From the punctual rape of every blessed day,
And cries,
``Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry,
Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam
And clear dances done in the sight of heaven.''

Yet, as the sun acknowledges
With a warm look the world's hunks and colors,
The soul descends once more in bitter love
To accept the waking body, saying now
In a changed voice as the man yawns and rises,

``Bring them down from their ruddy gallows;
Let there be clean linen for the backs of thieves;
Let lovers go fresh and sweet to be undone,
And the heaviest nuns walk in a pure floating
Of dark habits,
keeping their difficult balance.''
-Richard Wilbur

Four more days until our new additions to the "under this roof" family arrives.  Three rooms have been reallocated and are almost arranged - everyone has a space... the study has moved into the corner of the dining room and most of my books have moved to storage bins, the back of the truck, or Mc Kays ( a local bookstore - and one of our favorite haunts).  In the end, each girl has her own room with a personal bent, tans and neutrals with an artistic flare, black and cream with grown paisleys, or lime green with brilliant colors and polka dots... so fun- amazing what a little paint, a few ideas and good 'ol elbow grease can get accomplished in a week.

This poem reminded me of my heaping laundry room, it will inevitably be the last room tidy-ed up as ... it gets the bits and piles that has nowhere else to land.  Although I admit - I love when most of my house passes through it in a solitary week - this is the spring cleaning that didn't happen this spring.  Better late than never... better a purpose than just because...

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