More Love, More Love by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

Sorrow is how we learn to love.

—Rita Mae Brown, Riding Shotgun

If sorrow is how we learn to love,

then let us learn.

Already enough sorrow’s been sown

for whole continents to erupt

into astonishing tenderness.

Let us learn. Let compassion grow rampant,

like sunflowers along the highway.

Let each act of kindness replant itself

into acres and acres of widespread devotion.

Let us choose love as if our lives depend on it.

The sorrow is great. Let us learn to love greater—

riotous love, expansive love,

love so rooted, so common

we almost forget

the world could look any other way.

More Love, More Love

This amazing woman who writes a poem every day, has been writing deeply moving poems of grief for the past two months after the death of her son, and of the boundless love that she continues to give and receive. This poem was written in 2020, well before this excruciating loss and yet clearly, she has not lost this certainty, as was written by a wise soul in the twelfth century, that “There is no problem for which the instruction to love more is not the solution”.

If sorrow is how we learn to love / then let us learn. We could stop right there and reflect on the wisdom of that invitation, but there is more. Enough sorrow for whole continents to erupt / into astonishing tenderness – a tenderness we may not expect from sorrow. She invites us to let compassion grow rampant, and each act of kindness replant itself, like sunflowers, acres and acres of widespread devotion. Have you seen such acres of flowers – sunflowers, tulips, lavender?

She calls us to learn to love greater than the immensity of our sorrows – riotous, expansive, rooted love so common / we almost forget / the world could look any other way. Common, ordinary love – how would the world look then? She persuades us to choose love as if our lives depend on it. Clearly, this woman understands that her life depends on sharing more love. Would that we could all remember this in our times of sorrow.

Fall Song by Mary Oliver

Another year gone, leaving everywhere
its rich spiced residues: vines, leaves,

the uneaten fruits crumbling damply
in the shadows, unmattering back

from the particular island
of this summer, this NOW, that now is nowhere

except underfoot, moldering
in that black subterranean castle

of unobservable mysteries – roots and sealed seeds
and the wanderings of water. This

I try to remember when time’s measure
painfully chafes, for instance when autumn

flares out at the last, boisterous and like us longing
to stay – how everything lives, shifting

from one bright vision to another, forever
in these momentary pastures.

Fall Song

Mary Oliver, as many of you will know was masterful in describing the natural world and its changing seasons. Sometimes I think I must have read all of her poems but here is one new to me, such a delight. This year not quite gone but leaving its rich, spiced residues – leaves we would expect but uneaten fruits crumbling damply – now there is an image. I especially love the unmattering (!) of summer – who but Mary would have created a new word for that inevitable decay – this NOW, that now is nowhere / except underfoot. She leads us into that black subterranean castle of unobservable mysteries, how roots and seeds are there below the visible surface, how water makes its way through the earth.

All this richness she portrays to remind us when time’s measure / painfully chafes because the season is ending. Then autumn / flares out at the last, boisterous and like us longing / to stay. I know that I want to hold on to these final days of my favourite time of year, wanting it to stay longer. Yet I take heart that everything lives, dormant though it will be, in these momentary pastures. If you read this aloud, I think you will hear that this is a song, a fall song of praise for the shifting / from one bright vision to another.

Trust by Thomas R Smith

It’s like so many other things in life
to which you must say no or yes.
So you take your car to the new mechanic.
Sometimes the best thing to do is trust.

The package left with the disreputable-looking
clerk, the check gulped by the night deposit,
the envelope passed by dozens of strangers—
all show up at their intended destinations.

The theft that could have happened doesn’t.
Wind finally gets where it was going
through the snowy trees, and the river, even
when frozen, arrives at the right place.

And sometimes you sense how faithfully your life
is delivered, even though you can’t read the address.

Trust

Another poem in which the poet tells us his subject in the title and then goes on to show us what that reliability might look like. So many things in life to which you must say no or yes, do I trust or not? The package left with a sketchy clerk, the wayward banking machine, your letter passing through many hands – all show up at their intended destinations. Perhaps not every time, but still, we are asked to trust. Even the new mechanic, the theft that didn’t happen.

I was delighted to imagine the wind getting where it was going / through the snowy trees and how the frozen river arrives at the right place. Because it’s true, isn’t it, wind and water move naturally, know where they are going. But the best part for me is at the end, how faithfully your life / is delivered, like the package or the envelope, even though you can’t read the address, especially when you can’t read the address. How we must have faith in what life gives us even if we’re not sure it was meant for us.

Sometimes the best thing to do is trust.

Reel by Barbara Crooker

Maybe night is about to come
calling, but right now
the sun is still high in the sky.
It’s half-past October, the woods
are on fire, blue skies stretch
all the way to heaven. Of course,
we know winter is coming, its thin
winding sheets and its hard narrow bed.
But right now, the season’s fermented
to fullness, so slip into something
light, like your skeleton; while these old
bones are still working, my darling,
let’s dance.

Reel

Here is a light-hearted poem for darkening days and of course the celebration of Hallowe’en or Samhain, the time when the veils between the worlds are thin and in some cultures, the departed ancestors are celebrated. Though we are now already in November, it seemed timely to share this one.

By the time you are reading this, the sun may be high in the sky or perhaps night is about to come / calling. Either way, Crooker’s description of half-past October, with the woods on fire as they still are around here, is a beautiful evocation of this time of year. And this year it feels like the leaves are staying on the trees longer than usual; still waiting for my ginkgo to turn gold.

She playfully reminds us that winter is coming, its thin / winding sheets and its hard narrow bed – a harsh but apt descriptor of winter for those who feel its chill without the pleasures it can also bring. Still, for now, the season’s fermented / to fullness, another rich image of the inevitable conversion of autumn to winter. And finally, the invitation to let yourself move while these old / bones are still working.

May you dance to celebrate the changing season, the bountiful gifts of autumn’s harvest and gentle dying of the year.