There is something called peace–it dwells in the hope of today and the dream of tomorrow. It rings in our words, rests in our hands, and aches in our bones. Maybe Ms. Dickinson was wrong. Perhaps peace is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.
“Peace” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in our soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
But deaf is the world’s ear-
To its sweetest song-
That little bird implores in vain-
All its life long-
I’ve heard it sung in every land-
Lament in every tune-
Yet never in eternity-
Has it quelled the warrior rune.
~by Monica R. Ashbaugh, 11/18/15
~by Monica R. Ashbaugh 10/30-31/15
She dwells in loam and leaf
In autumn’s first frost
In morning birdsong
In glowing cracks of dawn
In the rush of river flow
And the rhapsody of rain.
She dwells in silver thread of web
In spinning weaver spider
In dance of wand’ring monarch
In forests deep and dark
In wave of fields of goldenrod
And hidden in the evening fog.
She dwells in calls of homesick geese
In crunch of brown shed leaves
In the shine of Orion’s rise
And every starlight of night skies
In the hurry of hungry squirrels
And the oak hope in each acorn.
She dwells in the mother’s eyes
And the daughter’s smile
And the tears of both.
She walks behind
To our right
And in death.
She is you
She is me
She is known, unknown, and forgotten
She ever shall be.
She dwells in
She dwells in/is sacred memory.