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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