It is raining very hard at the moment, and I'm sitting at the dining table watching out the window as the rain splashes off the second story onto the kitchen roof. And so, a poem...
"Like the Water" by Wendell Berry
of a deep stream,
love is always too much.
We did not make it.
Though we drink till we burst,
we cannot have it all,
or want it all.
In its abundance
it survives our thirst.
In the evening we come down to the shore
to drink our fill,
and sleep,
while it flows
through the regions of the dark.
It does not hold us,
except we keep returning to its rich waters
thirsty.
We enter,
willing to die,
into the commonwealth of its joy.
“It is difficult to get the news from poems,
ReplyDeleteyet people die miserably every day
for lack of what is found in poetry.”
William Carlos Williams
Thanks, Tim