IT HAPPENS TO THOSE WHO LIVE ALONE  </p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
<p>It happens to those<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
who live alone<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
that they feel sure<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
of visitors<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
when no one else<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
is there.</p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
<p>Until the one day<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
and the one particular<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
hour<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
working in the<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
quiet garden,</p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
<p>when they realize<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
at once<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
that all along<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
they have been<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
an invitation<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
to everything<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
and every kind of trouble</p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
<p>and that life<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
happens by<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
to those who<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
inhabit<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
silence</p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
<p>like the bees<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
visiting<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
the tall mallow<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
on their legs of gold,<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
or the wasps<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
going from door to door<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
in the tall forest<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
of the daisies.</p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
<p>I have my freedom<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
today<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
because nothing<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
really happened</p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
<p>and nobody came<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
to see me,<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
only the slow<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
growing of the garden<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
in the summer heat</p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
<p>and the silence of that<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
unborn life<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
making itself<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
known at my desk,</p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
<p>my hands<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
still<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
dark<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
with the crumbling<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
soil<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
as I write<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
and watch</p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
<p>the first lines<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
of a new poem<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
like flowers<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
of scarlet fire<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
coming to fullness<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
in a clear light.</p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
<p>‘It Happens to Those Who Live Alone’<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
From 'The House of Belonging'<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
© David Whyte and Many Rivers Press</p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
<p>PHOTO © David Whyte 2011: Garden Through Window; Arncliffe Yorkshire.
David Whyte‘s Facebook PAGE

IT HAPPENS TO THOSE WHO LIVE ALONE

It happens to those
who live alone
that they feel sure
of visitors
when no one else
is there.

Until the one day
and the one particular
hour
working in the
quiet garden,

when they realize
at once
that all along
they have been
an invitation
to everything
and every kind of trouble

and that life
happens by
to those who
inhabit
silence

like the bees
visiting
the tall mallow
on their legs of gold,
or the wasps
going from door to door
in the tall forest
of the daisies.

I have my freedom
today
because nothing
really happened

and nobody came
to see me,
only the slow
growing of the garden
in the summer heat

and the silence of that
unborn life
making itself
known at my desk,

my hands
still
dark
with the crumbling
soil
as I write
and watch

the first lines
of a new poem
like flowers
of scarlet fire
coming to fullness
in a clear light.

‘It Happens to Those Who Live Alone’
From ‘The House of Belonging’
© David Whyte and Many Rivers Press

© David Whyte 2011: Garden Through Window; Arncliffe Yorkshire.

And here is one response to his posting of the poem:

You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen.

Do not even listen, simply wait. Do not even wait, be quite still and solitary.

The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will

roll in ecstasy at your feet. — Kafka

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