Penultimate day of National Poetry Month

A Note

Life is the only way
to get covered in leaves,
catch your breath on the sand,
rise on wings.

To be a dog,
or stroke its warm fur,

or tell pain
from everything it's not;

to squeeze inside events,
dawdle in views,
to seek the least of all possible mistakes.

An extraordinary chance
to remember for a moment
a conversation held
with the lamp switched off.

And if only once
to stumble on a stone,
end up soaked in one downpour or another.

Mislay our keys in the grass,
and follow a spark on the wind with our eyes,

and keep on not knowing
something important.

For this next to last day of the month a poem by one of my half dozen most, most favorite poets, Wislawa Szymborska. I was happy to see someone posted some new photos of her on Wikipedia -- or I should say different. This one probably shows a younger woman than the rather stiff one I've seen most often before. There are several now on the site and I enjoyed seeing them a few minutes ago.

I think I am going to make copies of this one to give to my writing class this morning. It is the last class of the spring semester and I wish I knew how to make a zine because I would put in a couple poems and some quotes about writing. I know it's only a matter of looking at a good tutorial and following the steps but I just haven't done it yet. Maybe over the summer I'll teach myself.