Cloud Feathers
The Mysterious Synchronist at work: Three poems appeared in my New Year's Eve mailbox, reminding me that while we may not be able to choose all the events of our lives, we do get to choose how we will deal with them.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.-- William Shakespeare ( Macbeth, Act 5 Scene 5 )
[since feeling is first]
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don’t cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids’ flutter which says
we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life’s not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis
“Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words -
and never stops at all.” – Emily Dickinson