Merril’s poem yesterday reminded me that I haven’t used this image in a while. Today is my birthday and I am planning on being a spark.
When we dig beneath the fallen leaves,
brown in the incessant rain,
and there is only cold earth,
and overhead there is no sky,
just the sodden stuffing of a burst mattress,
when the cold is, and the rain is,
and nothing comes to fill the outstretched hand,
no joy, no timid, whisker-twitching hope,
we shrink, tempted by the swollen river
and its powerful embrace.
Every day, dull as ditch water,
chill and bleak, I give thanks
that there are always the birds,
cold, hungry, watchful,
dancing like sparks
from the furnace of the universe.