January 22nd, 2014

This was just a sketch I did this week. I had Robert Frost’s “Come In” running through my head, and also a parable a friend’s mother once told me. I may type out the parable later, but the poem is this:

As I came to the edge of the woods,
Thrush music — hark-
Now if it was dusk outside,
Inside it was dark.

Too dark in the woods for a bird
By sleight of wing
To better its perch for the night,
Though it still could sing.

The last of the light of the sun
That faded in the west
Still lived for one song more
In a thrush’s breast.

Far along the pillared dark
Thrush music went —
Almost like a call to come in
To the dark and lament.

But no, I was out for stars;
I would not come in.
I meant not even if asked;
And I hadn’t been.