Poems

Morgan Harper Nichols

Oh, how steady
hope makes the soul,
in the river rush of things
you cannot control.
For somehow through it all,
you have still been made whole.
Because as sure as the water
makes way
past the river stones,
so does hope carry you
past the depth
of your unknowns,
under fogged and white-gray skies
that demand
the most of tired eyes,
the sound of the rushing river
gently speaks:
all is passing,
truly passing.


When I Am Among the Trees
Mary Oliver

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”

The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come into the world to do this,
to go easy, to be filled with light, and to shine.”