Ripening

Everything ripens in spring. A storm just shuddered through here, thickening the air with the smell of rain. Today, life is bursting at the seams.

This evening I began Rilke's Book of the Hours, sitting among the bikes at dusk, the air warm and threatening, outside Readings on Lygon Street.

It's a collection of poems he wrote to God. This one shimmers...

When gold is in the mountain
And we’ve ravaged the depths
Till we’ve given up digging,

It will be brought forth into day
By the river that mines
The silences of stone.

Even when we don’t desire it,
God is ripening.

{Auch wenn wir nicht wollen:
Gott reift.}