The Layers

The Layers

By Stanley Kunitz

I have walked through many lives,

some of them my own,

and I am not who I was,

though some principle of being abides,

from which I struggle not to stray.

When I look behind,

as I am compelled to look before

I can gather strength to proceed on my journey,

I see the milestones dwindling toward the horizon

and the slow fires trailing from the abandoned camp-sites,

over which scavenger angels wheel on heavy wings.

Oh, I have made myself a tribe out of my true affections,

and my tribe is scattered!

How shall the heart be reconciled to its feast of losses?

In a rising wind the manic dust of my friends,

those who fell along the way,

bitterly stings my face.

Yet I turn, I turn,exulting somewhat,

with my will intact to go wherever I need to go,

and every stone on the road precious to me.

In my darkest night,

when the moon was covered

and I roamed through wreckage,

a nimbus-clouded voice directed me:

"Live in the layers,not on the litter."

Though I lack the art to decipher it,

no doubt the next chapter in my book of transformations is already written.

I am not done with my changes.

restoration

"By surrounding ourselves with landscapes that reflect the true nature of
our region, we embrace the unique character that makes California such a
wonderful place to live. The California garden is tended nature in miniature.
It’s not about the plants. It’s about generosity. It’s about giving back to the
land and giving oneself the pleasure and satisfaction of loving, getting
involved, and tending a garden modeled after the natural beauty of the region.
It’s about giving to everyone that sees and enjoys it the opportunity to
experience authentic California... "

What Are Years?

 

What is our innocence,
what is our guilt? All are
naked, none is safe.
And whence
is courage: the unanswered question,
the resolute doubt, -
dumbly calling, deafly listening-that
in misfortune, even death,
encourage others
and in it's defeat, stirs
the soul to be strong? He
sees deep and is glad, who
accededs to mortality
and in his
imprisonment rises
upon himself as
the sea in a chasm, struggling to be
free and unable to be,
in its surrendering
finds its continuing.
So he who strongly feels,
behaves. The very bird,
grown taller as he
sings, steels
his form straight up. Though he is captive,
his mighty
singing
says, satisfaction is a lowly
thing, how pure a thing is joy.
This is mortality,
this is eternity.

-Marianne Moore