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Monday's poem and life lately

The heatwave passed. Long walks on the beach. Homemade ice cream in bowls made by my own hands. Still in awe of being home. The beauty never leaves me here. Never ceases to stun me. The tall trees, and endless surrounding sea. Pileated woodpeckers in our trees, deer outside our windows, owls slicing the night's silence. Every single thing is beauty here.

But I can't let go yet. Fires are burning throughout BC. So far our little island seems removed, the sky still clear, the scent of roses on air. But I worry and watch the horizon constantly. Make sure the go bag is packed and ready. It's so dry. It's too dry. I never thought I'd spend a summer waiting and aching for fall rains.

Today's poem is by Wislawa Szymborska

In Fact Every Poem

In fact every poem

might be called "Moment."

One phrase is enough

in the present tense,

the past and even future;

it's enough so that anything

borne on words

begins to rustle, sparkle,

flutter, float,

while seeming

to stay changeless

but with a shifting shadow;

it's enough that there is talk

of someone next to someone

or someone next to something;

about Sally who has a kitty

or no longer has a kitty;

or about other Sallys

kitties or not kitties

from other primers

ruffled by the wind;

it's enough if within eyeshot

an author places temporary hills

and makeshift valleys;

if on this occasion

he hints at a heaven

apparently firm and enduring;

if there appears beneath a writing hand

at least one thing

that is called someone's;

if in black on white,

at least in thought,

for some serious or silly reason,

question marks are placed,

and if in response,

a colon:


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