(edited 3/18/2025)

Rolling hills remind me that nature is visual poetry.

The way each piece of grass ascends to the sun, the gently curve against an azure sky, the cracks which reveal the skeleton beneath, all speak on a level which transcends language itself.

This poetry sung to me on my return from Kansas – in the section most people complain about, I found some of the most beautiful scenes I had ever seen. Winter barrenness only emphasized the variations in the dry, brittle grass. Russet browns had space to draw attention because the flowers lay dormant. Golden rays were poured into thirsty grass until the grass illuminated the sun. And it was quiet. The loudness of summer has been dampened, yet it does not take away, rather it adds to the landscape.

Poetry speaks of the hardships of life in a beautiful manner. It doesn’t necessarily mean the experience was beautiful, but it does promise redemption… hope. Hardships, suffering, creates opportunities to emphasize parts of our life which otherwise gets overlooked – it gives attention where depravation was gravely felt. And, if the poets of old are to be believed, suffering is essential to our very existence. Rather than avoiding the long drive through the barrenness, I hope to embrace it and let my life become a scenery which it can be said – “her life was like a poem”.

Best of any song is a bird song in the quiet but first you must have the quiet

wendell berry