![\"\"](\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/johnesimpson.com\/images\/hoagycrankstartsacar_sm.jpg?resize=500%2C408&ssl=1\" "\\"Hoagy")
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[Image above is captioned: “Hoagy Carmichael* <\/em>pretending to crank start a car.” From whiskey river<\/em><\/a>, still mining the William Stafford vein (and no complaints from this quarter):<\/p>\n The Gift<\/strong><\/p>\n Time wants to show you a different country. It’s the one It’s the way life is, and you have it, a few years given. It’s a balance, the taking and passing along, (William Stafford [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Not from whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n The Compost Heap<\/strong><\/p>\n It waxed with autumn, when the leaves– In winter it gave off a warmth In summer, we\u2019d identify And everything we threw away We left the garden in the Fall– (A.E. Stallings [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n …and:<\/p>\n from<\/em> The Way To Start A Day<\/strong><\/a><\/p>\n The way to start a day Go outside When you feel the sun Just sing it.<\/p>\n But
\nFrom<\/a> the Hoagy Carmichael Collection at Indiana University.]<\/em><\/p>\n
\nthat your life conceals, the one waiting outside
\nwhen curtains are drawn, the one Grandmother hinted at
\nin her crochet design, the one almost found
\nover at the edge of the music, after the sermon.<\/p>\n
\nYou get killed now and then, violated
\nin various ways. (And sometimes it’s turn about.)
\nYou get tired of that. Long-suffering, you wait
\nand pray, and maybe good things come — maybe
\nthe hurt slackens and you hardly feel it any more.
\nYou have a breath without pain. It is called happiness.<\/p>\n
\nthe composting of where you’ve been and how people
\nand weather treated you. It’s a country where
\nyou already are, bringing where you have been.
\nTime offers this gift in its millions of ways,
\nturning the world, moving the air, calling,
\nevery morning, “Here, take it, it’s yours.”<\/p><\/blockquote>\n
\nDogwood, oak and sycamore–
\nAvalanched the yard and slipped
\nLike unpaid bills beneath the door.<\/p>\n
\nAnd held its ground against the snow,
\nThe barrow of the buried year,
\nThe swelling that spring stirred below.<\/p>\n
\nThe volunteers and green recruits,
\nA sapling apple or a pear
\nThat stemmed from bruised and bitten fruits.<\/p>\n
\nAnd we forgot, would by and by
\nReturn to earth, or drop its seed
\nTake root and start to ramify.<\/p>\n
\nYou turned the heap up with a rake
\nAnd startled latent in its heart
\nThe dark glissando of the snake.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n
\nis this–<\/p>\n
\nand face the east
\nand greet the sun
\nwith some kind of
\nor chant
\nor song
\nthat you made yourself
\nand keep for
\nearly morning<\/p>\n
\nyou’ll feel
\nthe song too.<\/p>\n
\nsound
\ndon’t think you’re
\nthe only one
\nwho ever worked
\nthat magic.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n