Recently I was in a local bookstore and rummaging around in the poetry section, hoping to get lucky. And I did–lo and behold, a copy of David Whyte’s Fire in the Earth. And since it’s less than 100 pages long, I’m not ashamed to admit that I read almost the whole thing in a day. Almost.
There were several that I had to read several times over, but this was my favorite. I could not find this anywhere online, so here it is from my copy. You’re welcome.
The photo is of an aspen tree, special to us Coloradoans, as it begins to put out the cotton that will carry its seeds. Soon there will be drifts of it, like fallen snow. Enjoy.
Here In The Mountains
There is one memory deep inside you.
In the dark country of your life
it is a small fire burning forever.
Even after all these years
of neglect
the embers of what you have
known rest contented
in their own warmth.
Here in the mountains,
tell me all the things
you have not loved.
Their shadows will tell you
they have not gone,
they became this night
from which you drew away in fear.
Though at the trail’s end,
your heart stammers
with grief and regret,
in this
final night
you will lean down at last
and breathe again on the
small campfire of your
only becoming.
And draw about you
the immensity
of the black sky
which loves your fire’s
centrality.
The deep shadow
that forever
takes
you in its arms.
The low song
of the long
and patient night
that holds you
in your sleep
and stitches
faithfully
with that impossible light
the dark blanket
from which you were born.
-David Whyte, from Fire in the Earth
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