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1 " a happy birthdaythis evening, I sat by an open windowand read till the light was gone and the bookwas no more than a part of the darkness.I could easily have switched on a lamp,but I wanted to ride the day down into night,to sit alone, and smooth the unreadable pagewith the pale gray ghost of my hand "
― Ted Kooser , Delights and Shadows
2 " Mother (fragment)...You asked me if I would be sad when it happenedand I am sad. But the iris I moved from your housenow hold in the dusty dry fists of their rootsgreen knives and forks as if waiting for dinner,as if spring were a feast. I thank you for that.Were it not for the way you taught me to lookat the world, to see the life at play in everything, I would have to be lonely forever. "
3 " She'd had little patience with darkness, and her heartheld only a measure of shadow. I touchedthe warm dust of those colors, her tools,and left there with light on the tips of my fingers. "
4 " His hands fluttered like birds,each with a fancy silk ribbonto weave into their nest,as he stood at the mirrordressing for work, waving helloto himself with both hands. "
5 " MOTHER – By Ted Kooser Mid April already, and the wild plumsbloom at the roadside, a lacy whiteagainst the exuberant, jubilant greenof new grass and the dusty, fading black of burned-out ditches. No leaves, not yet,only the delicate, star-petaledblossoms, sweet with their timeless perfume.You have been gone a month todayand have missed three rains and one nightlongwatch for tornadoes. I sat in the cellarfrom six to eight while fat spring cloudswent somersaulting, rumbling east. Then it poured,a storm that walked on legs of lightning,dragging its shaggy belly over the fields.The meadowlarks are back, and the finchesare turning from green to gold. Those sametwo geese have come to the pond again this year,honking in over the trees and splashing down.They never nest, but stay a week or twothen leave. The peonies are up, the red sprouts,burning in circles like birthday candles,for this is the month of my birth, as you know,the best month to be born in, thanks to you,everything ready to burst with living.There will be no more new flannel nightshirtssewn on your old black Singer, no birthday cardaddressed in a shaky but businesslike hand.You asked me if I would be sad when it happenedand I am sad. But the iris I moved from your housenow hold in the dusty dry fists of their rootsgreen knives and forks as if waiting for dinner,as if spring were a feast. I thank you for that. Were it not for the way you taught me to lookat the world, to see the life at play in everything,I would have to be lonely forever. "
6 " After YearsToday, from a distance, I saw youwalking away, and without a soundthe glittering face of a glacierslid into the sea. An ancient oakfell in the Cumberlands, holding onlya handful of leaves, and an old womanscattering corn to her chickens looked upfor an instant. At the other sideof the galaxy, a star thirty-five timesthe size of our own sun explodedand vanished, leaving a small green spoton the astronomer's retinaas he stood on the great open domeof my heart with no one to tell. "
7 " Surviving"There are days when the fear of deathis as ubiquitous as light. It illuminateseverything. Without it, I might nothave noticed this ladybird beetle,bright as a drop of bloodon the window’s white sill.Her head no bigger than a period,her eyes like needle points,she has stopped for a moment to rest,knees locked, wing covers hidingthe delicate lace of her wings.As the fear of death, so attentiveto everything living, comes near her,the tiny antennae stop moving. "