I wrote a poem today, but it wasn't the poem that I wanted to write. I sometimes walk around with an idea in my blood for sometime before it finds it's way to paper. And, for once, I think that's normal. And please, if it isn't, mind your manners and keep it to yourself.
I like the things I said in On Showing Our Baby The Dead Cat, though I know with my whole heart that these things have been said already. But, it's fine to say some things again.
The story isn't mine, as you well guessed. But an amazing woman's who I call H.
H and I went on some kind of renewing retreat recently to Minnesota, some tiny town on the Root River with eagles and Oriole nests hanging like brown uvulas and snow and love. We were sitting around the fire talking about death, as you often do on Renewal Retreats and this story came up. I swear to you, I didn't do it justice - maybe I'll revisit it once my other poem surfaces.
But honestly, this temporary life we're given is fast. It's the thawing Root River. It's a passing sentiment. It's beautiful and so goddamned full of pain that I'm not sure I can decipher the difference.
And mostly, we all need to walk in the dark past a Post Office in a town with 63 people and hope to see owls. And hope to avoid death for a just a little while longer.