I’ve been reading the poetry of James Still, an author I discovered while doing some research on the life of father Thomas Berry.

At a time I’m thinking about my own nature-deficit, as well as that of the younger generation, his words are like a soothing balm, given by someone who is whole.

I was born humble, at the foot of mountains,
my face was set upon the immensities of Earth, and stone, and upon the oaks full-bodied and old. There is so much
writ upon the parchment of leaves, so much of beauty blown upon the winds.

I can but fold my hands, and bend my
knees in the leaf pages.

Under the mute trees. I have cried with this knowledge.

Beneath the flight of birds

shaken with this waste of wings.

I was born humble. My heart greaves.

Beneath this wealth of wisdom


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