Let plain things please you again
and every ordinary Monday.
Bean soup in a white bowl,
firewood in your arms.
The weight of longing.
That you have survived is evidence
that nothing is assured
but you are lucky.
Looking up from this page
let all of it surprise you—
piled mail, other people, the air.
Posted by kind permission of the poet. To learn more, visit poetryforge.
call it our craziness even, call it anything. it is the life thing in us…
And a poet said, Speak to us of Beauty. And he answered: Where shall you…
. . . and silence is the golden mountain. —Jack Kerouac Listen. Turn everything off….
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