Day 33: St Brigitte's Day

This was my first actual hard day taking pictures. I also have very little to write. So I am posting a poem and the photos of the day.




Hands of Friendship

Lindy Whiton 2006

What counts is the purple grasses
Beginning to die in the median
The brightness of orange in Black Eyed Susans
Just before their end
Sitting next to that purple grass
A painting by Wolf Kahn
Who creates that purple
That orange on his palette
You place tiny fish stickers in the painting‘s river.

What counts are my friends
My silence
The strength of hands that
Invisibly surround my
Heart after its been pummeled
By death

What counts is a photo of Robert
Grieving and a child’s drawing of a happy world
Given to me on the same day.
Both penetrate the invisible hands
That surround my wounded heart.

What counts is the sea
How easy it is to meditate near.
I am unencumbered by vanity
Anxieties blocking my everyday breathing
The sea reaches far out into infinity
My eyes try to capture the end
But there is always something further
A rich brown head bobs up deciding
Where to splash his hard mammal
Body in search of a sea bass, or a mate
Or perhaps to watch the human meditate.

This is what counts
Children who squeal with glee
At what they figure out today
Or new confidence
An inspired story
Drawn from elements of their day
A long magical dream.

What counts is my hands
They count because they write
Touch
A finger that moves across his lips.
They count because they hold a teacup,
Unfold velvet.
They count because they warm up
Near the fire

What counts is the presence of grace.


II.


The invisible presence of hands
Holding my heart as though
It was their own
Only letting things that feed, absorb
Through their delicate sinews.

The invisible presence of hands: some small, some
Large or wide piano player hands, age spots
Beginning to line them, some arthritis showing up,
Hands with scars from garden mishaps, or broken
Glasses in the sink. Men’s hands that still work,
Less dependent on eye sight which is beginning to
Blur; still steady enough to hold the thread if only
He could see the eye. Hands with painted nails, or
Dirt covering them, still some chewed off nubs and
Lines that map out middle age.

These hands embrace each other
Circle around the fleshy mass,
This bloody fleshy mass
That was bludgeoned
Needs to heal.
They encircle it like
hands around a mug.





The weather picture: Did he see his shadow? Are there 6 more weeks of winter?