by: Donald Hall
In the cold mist of a November
morning, pickups park deep
in fallen leaves while hunters
file singly into the woods,
looking for deer that browse
in abandoned apple orchards
by cellarholes.
God watches
them move under oak and hemlock
like fleas in a dog's pelt,
so many of them, tiny among
the trees. The master declares:
"It makes no difference, a thousand
angels or one; there
is no number in eternity."
____________________
It has become truly summer in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. It has been 90 sweltering degrees all day, punctuated by an occasional massive thunderstorm. Even now, at nine o'clock in the evening, it has only cooled down a few degrees.
I am not going to belabor this post. I'm too hot. The Donald Hall poem above reminds me of cooler times, when things aren't so green and . . . hot. That's why I chose it. Plus, he captures the concept of eternity so well. It contains every number and no number. A thousand angels and one angel. All time and no time.
For Saint Marty, this day has seemed eternally warm.
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