"Jabberwocky"

 Here's a poem by Lewis Carrol, on his birthday.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

      And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

      The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

      The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand;

      Long time the manxome foe he sought—

So rested he by the Tumtum tree

      And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

      The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

      And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through

      The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

      He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

      Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”

      He chortled in his joy.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

      And the mome raths outgrabe.

White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field

White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field 

Coming down out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel, or a Buddha with wings,
it was beautiful, and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings — five feet apart —
and the grabbing thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys of the snow —
and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes
to lurk there, like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows —
so I thought:
maybe death isn't darkness, after all,
but so much light wrapping itself around us —

as soft as feathers —
that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking,
and shut our eyes, not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow,
that is nothing but light — scalding, aortal light —
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.

Mary Oliver

After trying to tempt him,  Mara challenged Siddhartha once more, asking, "Who will speak on your behalf?  Who will testify?"  Siddhartha said nothing but reached down and touched the earth with his right hand.  The earth itself spoke, proclaiming, "I bear witness."

 Weak Winter Sun

I have been enshrouded for months
by the weak winter sun, so weak
you can stare into the face of it
without hurting your eyes and see the fire
in its veins. It is stupidly
human to rush the season. The boy
cleans up his trout equipment.  Only two
more months to the fishing opener
and the dry flies and streamers
are impatiently waiting.  Seventy-seven
years of weak winter sun, the lake
frozen over with several feet of ice. The moon
glowing once without a trace of heat.

Jim Harrison

Winter is icumen in,
Lhude sing,
Praiseth ye God...