From The Book of Time

Everyone lately (that I am following, anyway) is writing poetry right now. And although I am usually thinking in prose, I really appreciate the poetic mind, maybe because I'm prosy. I share with you another favorite poet (Mary Oliver):

I rose this morning early as usual, and went to my desk.
But it's spring,

and the thrush is in the woods,
somewhere in the twirled branches, and he is singing.

And so, now, I am standing by the open door.
And now I am stepping down onto the grass.

I am touching a few leaves.
I am noticing the way the yellow butterflies
move together, in a twinkling cloud, over the field.

And I am thinking: maybe just looking and listening
is the real work.

Maybe the world, without us,
is the real poem.

That is from page 17, The Leaf and the Cloud. Ah, spring!!! Yesterday it rained here all day, was cold and dreary, and I thought today would be the same. But instead, the clouds cleared off, the sun came out, and it was gorgeous all day long. Cool, clear, breezy.