Wednesday is for Words (& sometimes pictures): Dillard, Shipman, Plath

A certain minor light, the poetess says.  I think maybe the gentleness of our God does not always wish to blind us with his glory, but shimmer incandescent for those who have eyes to see.

1.  Annie Dillard

"…beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them.

 The least we can do is try to be there."  Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

2.  Andrew Shipman

[photo credit:  Andrew Shipman, Fly]

3.  Sylvia Plath

Black Rook in Rainy Weather

On the stiff twig up there

Hunches a wet black rook

Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.

I do not expect miracle

Or an accident.

To set the sight on fire

In my eye, nor seek

Any more in the desultory weather some design,

But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,

Without ceremony, or portent.

Although, I admit, I desire,

Occasionally, some backtalk

From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:

A certain minor light may still

Leap incandescent

Out of the kitchen table or chair

As if a celestial burning took

Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --

Thus hallowing an interval

Otherwise 

inconsequent

By bestowing 

largesse

, honour,

One might say love.

At any rate, I now walk

Wary (for it could happen

Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); sceptical,

Yet politic; ignorant

Of whatever angel may choose to flare

Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook

Ordering its black feathers can so shine

As to seize my senses, haul

My eyelids up, and grant

A brief respite from fear

Of total neutrality. With luck

Trekking stubborn through this season

Of fatigue, I shall

Patch together a content

Of sorts. Miracles occur,

If you care to call those spasmodic

Tricks of radiance miracles. The 

wait's

 begun again,

The long wait for the angel,

For that rare, random descent.