My favorite poets have been dominating my thoughts. As we head for the shortest night of the year, I find myself sitting closer to the fire, wrapped a little tighter in my favorite shawl, diving headfirst into the landscape of other minds from other times and places.
The Poetry of Tagore
The butterfly counts not months but moments,
And has time enough.
The Poetry and Prose of Rainer Maria Rilke
This is the creature there has never been.
They never knew it, and yet, none the less,
they loved the way it moved, its suppleness,
its neck, its very gaze, mild and serene.
Not there, because they loved it, it behaved
as though it were. They always left some space.
And in that clear unpeopled space they saved
it lightly reared its head, with scarce a trace
of not being there. They fed it, not with corn,
but only with the possibility
of being. And that was able to confer
such strength, its brow put forth a horn. One horn.
Whitely it stole up to a maid - to be
within the silver mirror and in her.
The Haiku of the Master, Basho
in a world of one color
the sound of wind