This is my favourite favourite poem. It's written by Patrick Lane
I feel I am the heroine in this lovely work of art
by Patrick Lane
We search the hours for solitude,
the quiet of herons in their sleep,
a fisher on the wing who falls into the waves in search of
or a woman making her way through mist in early morning,
delicate as water.
We search for this, a small stone in the tide,
a broken shell, a crab so still we think it prays,
its claws raised to our hands as if what we wait for is
What do we do with our hours?
We reach for what comes to us in quiet.
There is in us a need for silence.
Look at the woman who is heron in her mind.
She has made of life a silence.
See how she holds all her life in her eyes.
She walks among stones.
Far from her in the tidal reach, birds rise into light.
Who goes to her but herself?
What she has held is hers and hers alone:
to watch the quiet of herons, a kingfisher falling from all the
there is upon the quiet she gives only to herself,
a beach whose medicine is hers and hers
So many...ask and I'll tell you...
I'm not like other people -- I don't follow the crowd...I'm a very
independent original thinker...
So I find myself needing to post from my all-time favourite poet,
Wind and Window Flower
LOVERS, forget your love,
And list to the love of these,
She a window flower,
And he a winter breeze.
When the frosty window veil
Was melted down at noon,
And the cag'ed yellow bird
Hung over her in tune,
He marked her through the pane,
He could not help but mark,
And only passed her by,
To come again at dark.
He was a winter wind,
Concerned with ice and snow,
Dead weeds and unmated birds,
And little of love could know.
But he sighed upon the sill,
He gave the sash a shake,
As witness all within
Who lay that night awake.
Perchance he half prevailed
To win her for the flight
From the firelit looking-glass
And warm stove-window light.
But the flower leaned aside
And thought of naught to say.
And morning found the breeze
A hundred miles away.