Monday is another day of snow. The appearance of flakes, the shortening of vision, the powder piled on the sidewalk and great machines tripping and panting along the streets, rendered suddenly powerless by water, snow and ice. It is a good day to remain in doors and ransack the poets.
Tend to your soul. Turn off the meteorologists. They predict and frighten. Tend to your mind. Find one wonderful sentence crafted by a poet that can lead you to heaven’s gate at Jerusalem’s wall (that’s William Blake). Mind you, you could read a novel of two hundred pages or get started but poetry is sonic zen expansiveness. One single line can open a world. Here’s a line I found while ransacking poets today. It is by Franz Wright and his book, Walking to Martha’s Vineyard, in a poem entitled, “My Place.”
I believe one day the distance between myself and God will disappear.