bird by bird

By: Mary Oliver I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers flow in the right direction, will the earth turn as it was taught, and if not how shall I correct it? Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven, can I do better? Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows can do it and I am, well, hopeless. Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it, am I going to get rheumatism, lockjaw, dementia? Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing. And gave it up. And took my old body and went out into the morning, and sang.

by Joyce Sutphen  Everything remembers something. The rock, its fiery bed, cooling and fissuring into cracked pieces, the rub of watery fingers along its edge. The cloud remembers being elephant, camel, giraffe, remembers being a veil over the face of the sun, gathering itself together for the fall. The turtle remembers the sea, sliding over and under its belly, remembers legs like wings, escaping down the sand under the beaks of savage birds. The tree remembers the story of each ring, the years of drought, the floods, the way things came walking slowly towards it long ago. And the skin remembers its scars, and the bone aches where it was broken. The feet remember the dance, and the arms remember lifting up the child. The heart remembers everything it loved and gave away, everything it lost and found again, and everyone it loved, the heart cannot forget.