Friday, May 10, 2013

Last night as I stepped out my front door about to head out for a walk, I was greeted by a blizzard of blooms. 

Just a bit ago, I came across this poem by Jack Gilbert:

What do they say each new morning 
                                               in Heaven? They would 
weary of one always 
singing how green the 
green trees are in

Surely it would seem convention
 and affectation
 to rejoice every time 
Helen went by, since 
she would have gone daily by. 

What can I say then each time 
your whiteness glimmers
 and fashions in the night? If each time your voice
 opens so near
 in that dark 

new? What can I say each morning
 after that you will
 believe? But there is this
 stubborn provincial 
singing in me, 
O, each time. 

And tomorrow I will take a workshop with one of my favorite writing teachers.
And after I will see the man who loves me.

Somehow, in my brain this all fits together wonderfully.

1 comment:

Elizabeth said...

It was wonderful to see you today at the workshop -- despite all that you've been through, you continue to radiate peace and beauty and hilarity. I love that Jack Gilbert poem, have never read it before. What must it have been like to be the woman for whom or about whom he wrote?