Reading poetry by Czeslaw Milosz this morning, and the concreteness of his writing calls me out of my head into the freshness of the humid morning. I found this poem at the Nobel Prize site.
We were riding through frozen fields in a wagon at dawn.
A red wing rose in the darkness.
And suddenly a hare ran across the road.
One of us pointed to it with his hand.
That was long ago. Today neither of them is alive,
Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture.
O my love, where are they, where are they going
The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles.
I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder.
Such simple words fill my heart with ballast to move through another day.
Have no idea why…
…nor do I care.