One cherishes an ideal of non-reaction. One works in the wrong office on the wrong project for twenty years. One wakes up at the usual time and notices that the curtains have dust on them. One writes, one does.
Leaves that survived many months beneath ice and snow now dry up, now get pushed by wind. The owl waits patiently in the front yard maple for the rabbits to come out. When turtles pull their heads in, do their spines buckle or contract? I take poetry seriously, really I do.
It's a blue feeling, from time to time, like Simon and Garfunkel in the early 1970's. We live inside bubbles and yearn for an external push. The thirteenth sentence is always best. As a child, swimming made me happy, and walking alone in the forest.
One makes a religion of loneliness, ones write a million words about a book in which they don't actually believe. In late March, the moon has a certain quality as the sun rises, as if unsure it belongs anymore in the sky. Coffee, not tea, and whiskey, not wine. Who can forget Sandburg's little cat feet?
We are all going, all along. Praying for others is good, even when you don't mean it. Certain works of art were meant to be held up while others are blessed differently. The dog curls up on the bed to sleep, content.
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