A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
I am not so blessed or so not blessed, being a lapsed
Unitarian who believes only in oaks and sunlight,
nor am I honored, a once-bright thought now sunk
into meaninglessness on everyone’s lips, one of so many
clichés of our times, and I certainly don’t deserve anything,
good or bad, a ridiculous notion, as if we could bend fate
in our own hands. What happens is merely what happens.
We manufacture the stories after, to make proper sense
of the random world, but they confer blame on the innocent,
by and large they serve us ill. All that counts in the end
is practice, letting whatever come closer in, sitting beside
those trusted friends: the delightful and the unacceptable,
busted fan belt in evening traffic, the diagnosis, that sudden,
unexpected, dreamed-of poetry prize, the lottery win.
Copyright 2018 Molly Fisk