A poem for Wednesday

I think it's because I seem hyper-aware of this 10-year emigration anniversary that I've started to crave change. Nothing dramatic, but some flavour of starting from scratch, ebeginning from nothing. Much as I love the idea of gentle change and evolution, there's something so beautiful about clearly demarcated beginnings and endings, even if they're our own artificial constructs. Maybe it'll be a fresh coat of paint. Maybe I'm getting ready to move on from my building. I don't have a clear idea of the particulars, only a desire to end one chapter and start a new one.

This is by Mary Oliver and, of course, I also love it because I'm also an astrological crab.

The Hermit Crab
Once I looked inside
  the darkness
    of a shell folded like a pastry,
      and there was a fancy face—

or almost a face—
  it turned away
    and frisked up its brawny forearms
      so quickly

against the light
  and my looking in
    I scarcely had time to see it,

under the pure white roof
  of old calcium.
    When I set it down, it hurried
      along the tideline

of the sea,
  which was slashing along as usual,
    shouting and hissing
      toward the future,

turning its back
  with every tide on the past,
    leaving the shore littered
      every morning

with more ornaments of death—
  what a pearly rubble
    from which to choose a house
      like a white flower—

and what a rebellion
  to leap into it
    and hold on,
      connecting everything,

the past to the future—
  which is of course the miracle—
    which is the only argument there is
      against the sea.
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