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I know, you never intended to be in this world.
But you’re in it all the same.

so why not get started immediately.

I mean, belonging to it.
There is so much to admire, to weep over.

And to write music or poems about.

Bless the feet that take you to and fro.
Bless the eyes and the listening ears.
Bless the tongue, the marvel of taste.
Bless touching.

You could live a hundred years, it’s happened.
Or not.
I am speaking from the fortunate platform
of many years,
none of which, I think, I ever wasted.
Do you need a prod?
Do you need a little darkness to get you going?
Let me be urgent as a knife, then,
and remind you of Keats,
so single of purpose and thinking, for a while,
he had a lifetime.

Mary Oliver

I worry that I do not know what my dreams are, or that my dreams are too ambiguous to ever form fruit.

There is much to do, I keep telling myself. I hear it from far off and I see it in the faces of the new moon. I can feel the strange sense of restlessness that seems to steam out from whatever drawer I keep placing it. It creaks like the adolescent fillings in my teeth and beg to be tended to just the same.

I drink hot coffee. I butter toast and heat up tomato soup and try to quell the anxious twitch under my eyelids. I read pages from books that gather in piles on the kitchen nook, in my bags, and on the nightstand, next to his salt lamp and my eucalyptus stems. It’s enough to be this. To be surrounded by items collected and gifted in love. To see and touch each memory. Each dream. To be reminded. To live with reverence. The word itself is a silent verb.

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