I had no business going to the library tonight, but I stood there anyway in the aisle of poetry, and inhaled my first real breath today.
Quiet holiness. That’s how I feel about poetry. A stroke of awe. That’s how I feel about poets.
It’s strange too, since I could stand without a flinch before kings and queens, nobles and dignitaries. I hold great respect, but rare do I awe.
And now, in the shadows of this second evening of spring, I shall slip into my bed with bended knee and sip a phrase or two from this slim gold volume.
Enough. These few words are enough.
If not these words, this breath,
If not this breath, this sitting here.
This opening to the life
we have refused
again and again