The time is comeThomas Merton, Seeds of Destruction, “To a Cuban poet”
when the publication of poems
is to be like that
of pale and very light airborne seeds
flowing in the current of forest air
through the blue shadows,
and falling on the grass
where God decrees.
I am convinced
that we are now already
in the time
where the printed word is not read,
but the paper passed from hand to hand
is read eagerly.
A time of small letters,
but serious and personal,
and outside of the meaningless dimension
of the huge,
and the cruel.
Last spring I painted this on a sheet of plywood to hang on the barn.
However, when I carried it out to the barn and stood by the road to look at it, the seeds in the breeze were barely visible and the words were a little hard to read.
So I lugged it back to the house, took this one poor photograph of it, and painted over the whole thing — a single daisy and the word HOPE.
I needed hope so much in that season. I missed my father awfully. I was overwhelmed with his estate. I felt like I was failing at everything.
This morning I was feeling that aching need for hope again — but for entirely different reasons.
It is, indeed, a time for small letters — hand-written and from the heart.
For slowing down and noticing.
For seeing, really seeing, what is true and good.
I need some seeds to plant in the ground.
And I need to wait in hope.