[Note: If you can't see the viewer above, please click here to watch the video.]
Some Sunday afternoon, it may be,
you are sitting under your porch roof,
looking down through the trees
to the river, watching the rain. The circles
made by the raindrops’ striking
expand, intersect, dissolve,
and suddenly (for you are getting on
now, and much of your life is memory)
the hands of the dead, who have been here
with you, rest upon you tenderly
as the rain rests shining
upon the leaves. And you think then
(for thought will come) of the strangeness
the hands of the dead, who have been here
with you, rest upon you tenderly
as the rain rests shining
upon the leaves. And you think then
(for thought will come) of the strangeness
of the thought of heaven, for now
you have imagined yourself there,
remembering with longing this
happiness, this rain. Sometimes here
we are there, and there is no death.
you have imagined yourself there,
remembering with longing this
happiness, this rain. Sometimes here
we are there, and there is no death.
"1996, V" ["Some Sunday afternoon, it may be"] by Wendell Berry, from This Day: New & Collected Sabbath Poems 1979-2012. © Counterpoint, 2013.Art credit: "Kayden + Rain," video by Nicole Byon; soundtrack music, "In My Arms," by Jon Foreman.
Wow. Crying before breakfast. The poem and the video, just wonderful Thank you.
ReplyDeleteI know the feeling. You're welcome. The poem and the video seemed to be a pair. I can't watch that video without tearing up. Deep peace.....
ReplyDeleteSo very moving to read this poem today in 2026 not long after Berry returned to the earth he loved and cared for so well.
ReplyDeleteAnother Wendell Berry poem I thought of at his passing:
The Loved Ones
The loved ones we call the dead
depart from us and for a while
are absent. And then as if
called back by our love, they come
near us again. They enter our dreams.
We feel they have been near us
when we have not thought of them.
They are simply here, simply waiting
while we are distracted among
our obligations. At last
it comes to us: They live now
in the permanent world.
We are the absent ones.