Life is the only way to get covered in leaves, catch your breath on the sand, rise on wings.
To be a dog, or stroke its warm fur,
or tell pain from everything it's not;
to squeeze inside events, dawdle in views, to seek the least of all possible mistakes.
An extraordinary chance to remember for a moment a conversation held with the lamp switched off.
And if only once to stumble on a stone, end up soaked in one downpour or another.
Mislay our keys in the grass, and follow a spark on the wind with our eyes,
and keep on not knowing something important.
For this next to last day of the month a poem by one of my half dozen most, most favorite poets, Wislawa Szymborska. I was happy to see someone posted some new photos of her on Wikipedia -- or I should say different. This one probably shows a younger woman than the rather stiff one I've seen most often before. There are several now on the site and I enjoyed seeing them a few minutes ago.
I think I am going to make copies of this one to give to my writing class this morning. It is the last class of the spring semester and I wish I knew how to make a zine because I would put in a couple poems and some quotes about writing. I know it's only a matter of looking at a good tutorial and following the steps but I just haven't done it yet. Maybe over the summer I'll teach myself.
The mid-70s are a surprise! Part of me remains in the 50s -- age, I mean, not decade of 20th century. It's a joy ride, new experiences land in my lap and I've become a better quilter, poet, writer than I expected. It's a rich life for a person never rich financially. Hey, this is what the mid-70s are like!