to what listens

I come to it again

and again, the thought of the wren

opening his song here

to no human ear–

no woman to look up,

no man to turn his head.

The farm will sink then

from all we have done and said.

Beauty will lie, fold

on fold, upon it.  Foreseeing

it so I cannot withhold

love.  But from the height

and distance of foresight,

how well I like it

as it is!  The river shining,

the bare trees on the bank,

the house set snug

as a stone in the hill’s flank,

the pasture behind it green.

Its songs and loves throb

in my head till like the wren

I sing– to what listens– again.

{Wendell Berry}

{sculpture: Virgil Scripcariu}


1 thought on “to what listens”

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