H, I’ve been thinking about your question and god, I woke up so late today, which has nothing to do what you asked, but I hate it, I do. Everything is wrong about the rest of the day and coffee doesn’t help.

There isn’t much of a view from my window; my room overlooks a tiny grassy garden and the drab warehouse of a laundry. I was rather disappointed when I first got here, but I open my window and get to listen to blackbirds and starlings. That’s something, isn’t it? What I have not arranged alters me and the poems I roam in are always spacious and have gongs that guide me somehow. And I try to take Louise Erdrich‘s advice:

“…don’t read anything
except what destroys
the insulation between yourself and your experience
or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters
this ruse you call necessity.”

That’s the best that I can do, for now. I was going to say something else but it turns out I do need more coffee. Lucky you.

The Ponds
Mary Oliver

Every year
the lilies
are so perfect
I can hardly believe

their lapped light crowding
the black,
mid-summer ponds.
Nobody could count all of them —

the muskrats swimming
among the pads and the grasses
can reach out
their muscular arms and touch

only so many, they are that
rife and wild.
But what in this world
is perfect?

I bend closer and see
how this one is clearly lopsided —
and that one wears an orange blight —
and this one is a glossy cheek

half nibbled away —
and that one is a slumped purse
full of its own
unstoppable decay.

Still, what I want in my life
is to be willing
to be dazzled —
to cast aside the weight of facts

and maybe even
to float a little
above this difficult world.
I want to believe I am looking

into the white fire of a great mystery.
I want to believe that the imperfections are nothing —
that the light is everything — that it is more than the sum
of each flawed blossom rising and fading. And I do.

p.s: I think I finally figured out how to use this trackpad.:D

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