It's not like it is poetry week, or month, or whatever. Poetry is all around us, all the time. I used to drive family members crazy by breaking out into song all the time (there seems to be a song from a musical to cover just about anything). It is just as easy to break out into poetry.
I'm a little stressed over expenses these days. The termite hit was pretty large; it blows the budget all on its own. The carpenter has been fixing the room for a couple of days now and is still not done, so I don't even know what that total will be. *sigh* But it is spring, we have our family, the flowers are blooming. Daniel's blood sugars are in range for a few days now. It's spring break. I'm home with my kids for a week. The weather will warm up. A trip to Great Falls is on the agenda. Yet there isn't actually much of an agenda. The clock can move more slowly this week. We have each other. That, of itself, is a little miracle.
Here's a poem by the wonderful Molly Peacock:
No use getting hysterical.
The important part is: we're here.
Our lives are a little miracle.
My hummingbird-hearted schedule
beats its shiny frenzy, day into year.
No use getting hysterical--
it's always like that. The oracle
a human voice could be is shrunk by fear.
Our lives are a little miracle
--we must remind ourselves--whimisical,
and lyrical, large and slow and clear.
(So no use getting hysterical!)
All words other than I love you are clerical,
dispensable, and replaceable, my dear.
Our inner lives are a miracle.
The beat their essence in the coracle
our ribs provide, the watertight boat we steer
through others' acid, hysterical
demands. Ours is the miracle. we're here.