Poetry

The other night, my younger daughter, who is 12, asked if we would read her a poem just before sleep. At first, my husband said it was too late. Then he let go of rigidity and thought about it with an open mind. Really, how can you say "no poetry for you young lady!" So he grabbed a collection that we have by Billy Collins and opened it randomly to a poem. It was a wonderful, sweet poem about taking notice of each day. I thought it was so appropriate to what we have been thinking about lately. I hope it is o.k. to copy it here for all of you to read. It is from a book called Sailing Alone Around the Room.

Days

Each one is a gift, no doubt,

mysteriously placed in your waking hand

or set upon your forehead

moments before you open your eyes.

Today begins cold and bright,

the ground heavy with snow

and the thick masonry of ice,

the sun glinting off the turrets of clouds.

Through the calm eye of the window

everything is in its place

but so precariously

this day might be resting somehow

on the one before it,

all the days of the past stacked high

like the impossible tower of dishes

entertainers used to build on stage.

No wonder you find yourself

perched on the top of a ladder

hoping to add one more.

Just another Wednesday,

you whisper,

then holding your breath,

place this cup on yesterday's saucer

without the slightest clink.

I think it is somewhat sad and tense, but also so hopeful and confident. I imagine a Wednesday morning, like today, where I open my eyes and it is like Christmas. There is a little box at the foot of my bed and I open it and say "Oh my god! I can't believe it! I got another day! It's a Wednesday! I am going to take care of it and try not to break it." And I am so happy and excited, like I just won the lottery. Can you imagine if we started each day like this. I am going to try.

years go by - the pictures at the top are 4 years and 2 continents apart. I don't like the expression "it's all good" because some of it is not. But, most of it is.