Light splashed this morning on the shell-pink anemones swaying on their tall stems; down blue-spiked veronica light flowed in rivulets over the humps of the honeybees; this morning I saw light kiss the silk of the roses in their second flowering, my late bloomers flushed with their brandy. A curious gladness shook me.
So I have shut the doors of my house, so I have trudged downstairs to my cell, so I am sitting in semi-dark hunched over my desk with nothing for a view to tempt me but a bloated compost heap, steamy old stinkpile, under my window; and I pick my notebook up and I start to read aloud the still-wet words I scribbled on the blotted page: "Light splashed . . ." I can scarcely wait till tomorrow when a new life begins for me, as it does each day, as it does each day.
-- Stanley Kunitz
(h/t June for bringing me the wonderful
A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver, because
I missed her speaking at UCLA. The book
cites this poem (in a section on figurative