Tenderness of fields , painting by Elena Artstyle, pixels.com In soft slips of blooms In cool mists of morning In silver whispers of song In pink presses of lips In our arms encircling In our fingers lacing In our eyes wondering In our voices laughing In rivers flowing wide In clouds breaking open In boundless breath of skies In limitless light of stars In spring bursting into blossoms In wings rising in golden sunshine In our hands lifting to brilliant blue In how earth is enfolding us In how love is rebirthing us In how hope is carrying us In how we walk together In how we fly together Copyright @Stacie Eirich March 4, 2024 *** Listen to this poem & discussion on Spotify at the link below: Poetry for Peace, Season 4: A New Dawn, Episode 8: Tenderness This poem is another that came with the dawn, with another morning of waking, of rising, of moving, of writing, and of hoping. Our steps forward into life after my child’s cancer are still tentative
Claude Monet (1840–1926), Spring, 1886, oil on canvas, 64.8 x 80.6 cm, The Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge. Public domain image. I turn the pages sideways write across across rather than down — a horizon of light rather than rush of rainfall. Listen to the melody of strings sliding through air, a shifting in my soul with the rising of a cello. Its solo, melancholic and strong an ascending scale climbing rungs of branches to light. A soft break-through a quiet opening of clouds to the music of hopefulness, of humanity’s heart — our hearts born of nature’s breath. The breath that holds in it wings and bones and histories of time: the knowledge of all life, all creatures. The breath that wraps us in warmth, covers us in cold. It is silent, then whispers, then sings the song of a nightingale. Soft and dark, rising into fluttering wind lifting before the dawn. What is this music within us since birth the music that rises with the sun the call of a lark echoing across blue feathered skies?