by W.S. Merwin
Certain words now in our knowledge we will not use again, and we will never forget them. We need them. Like the back of the picture. Like our marrow, and the color in our veins. We shine the lantern of our sleep on them, to make sure, and there they are, trembling already for the day of witness. They will be buried with us, and rise with the rest.
Sometimes I feel this way about everything. But if you feel this way about everything, then what is left?
A lot more is left. But so much of what I feel these days is strange to articulate. Who can explain the satisfaction of supermarkets stocking tangelos? Who can explain the arresting sight of the rolling green hills of the East Bay- how can it still squeeze the heart when it's been seen so many times, and so much else in the world has been seen that supersedes it? How to write- I discovered I do not care for arugula today? How to say I feel a sense of peace that can only come from setting aside hours for no one else but me?