greenstorm | Morning

It's morning, and bright sunlight is pouring in through the curtain to fill the room like a bowl. There is music playing, quietly: my music. I am happy.

I want to post two poems from greatpoets, but want too to keep my words my own. They come out slow and struggling on this unfamiliar configuration of keys. I feel careful with them; usually when I write it feels like deep-diving, this feels like drinking from a water fountain.

Last night we wandered, blown by circumstance over the frosty streets of the city, until we found the best Vietnamese restaurant. A kite is a bird, without a string. The chief joy in images lies in juxtaposing the abstract and the particular.

Walking the city is an ownership for me. Steinbeck said that, if a man pulls food out of a piece of earth, it is his and he will fight for it thereafter. My feet, just walking, own the ground. A soul is not always so individual as we like to think. No man is an island, Donne wrote.

These are my words, chosen slowly and entered with effort. With them, I am saying: I'm well. Good morning. Smile today at something beautiful.