Four days ago I suddenly had a thought as I looked at my shelves of poetry books: from this day until I can no longer read I intend to read at least ONE POEM per day. Or night...I have started with Mary Oliver's collection called Thirst,
the one following the death of her partner of over forty years. Hard to keep to one poem...and mostly don't...but how can lines like these be anything but an invitation to read one more?
My work is loving
Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what
which is my work,
which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished...
Besides which...it means I go to sleep
with a smile of peaceful forest scenes...