I read the news this morning looking for a sprig of comfort, signs that the economy will turn around and the environment be honored the way it should.
I come across Billy Collins.
flowers wilting on the table,
the self regarding itself in a watery mirror.
the wind moans in the chimney,
and the tendrils of the yew tree inch toward the coffin.
would make of all this,
thee shadows and empty cupboards?
my thoughts turn to the great
tenth-century celebrators of experience,
could hardly be restrained,
and to his joyous counterpart in the western provinces,