I will never tire of the year and its movement. I am ever in awe of this miracle. In the orgy of summer, Death is a secret stealing up through the veins of trees, making ready Its autumn table....The bread is risen. A stolen, precious beauty has peopled the secret places in the blue notes of evening. Loss and glory. I lift my hands. Death and service. Sacrifice and Sanctuary. In the hot nights. In the sweet water.
The mourning doves rush out of the tiger lilies in the hour after dawn breaks and sing the names of everything that is. That’s your name they’re calling. It’s my name too.---------
Go read her.