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 morningin Heaven? They would
weary of one always
singing how green the
green trees are in
Surely it would seem convention
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
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.