My dearest T., I am thinking of the story of the boy whose hat hid a whole village. You said that the skies were outside the hat and I declared that they lay within. We argued about this, and each time we were astonished at the other’s stupidity.

 

Of Being
Denise Levertov

I know this happiness
is provisional:

the looming presences —
great suffering, great fear —

withdraw only
into peripheral vision:

but ineluctable this shimmering
of wind in the blue leaves:

this flood of stillness
widening the lake of sky:

this need to dance,
this need to kneel:
this mystery:

 

I’m leaning against that colon, brownie.

 

 

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