I just got in. And I'm thinking about going back out. But it's snowing and my ear is aching a bit from the cold and I feel like I stop breathing when I'm inside, so I sortof don't want to go out. Though I have things to do and will feel better for getting them done. While I mull this over, here's a poem by Susan Rich. It received my vote for the TLS 2008 poetry competition and went on to win. Also, not unrelated to this NYT article, which BFF sent me yesterday.
Different Places To Pray
Everywhere, everywhere she wrote; something is falling –
a ring of keys slips out of her pocket into the ravine below;
nickels and dimes and to do lists; duck feathers from a gold pillow.
Everywhere someone is losing a favorite sock or a clock stops
circling the day; everywhere she goes she follows the ghost of her heart;
jettisons everything but the shepherd moon, the hopeless cause.
This is the way a life unfolds: decoding messages from profiteroles,
the weight of mature plums in late autumn. She’d prefer a compass
rose, a star chart, text support messages delivered from the net,
even the local pet shop – as long as some god rolls away the gloss
and grime of our gutted days, our global positioning crimes.
Tell me, where do you go to pray – a river valley, a pastry tray?