The organization I work for hosts a staff retreat every fall to re-orient all staff members to the mission of the agency, to each other and to offer opportunities for staff who don’t interact on a day-to-day basis to see how the work we all do is interconnected. It’s intended to be informative, refreshing and productive. I think our management team did a good job with all of that. Plus, they let us leave earlier than we would on any regular day of work– I was home by 3:00pm!
With two additional, unexpected hours to my day and so much to catch up on (including sleep), I have to use this time well. In the past few weeks, I have had visitors from out of town, gone to two weddings (one of which was my sister’s, which required a little more responsibility than simply showing up), let my room get out of control and completely ignored my graduate school application essays. I have also developed a slight, but constant itch on my arms and legs. That’s a lot for October.
I have already done laundry (my sheets and towels, in the hopes that it was a roommate’s stray dryer sheet that is causing my itchiness) and gone grocery shopping. I fully intend to also spend a good chunk of time revisiting my essays.
But right now, I want to take some time for poetry, because generally, there is a lack of time for poetry. I would like to share one of my favorite poems from one of my favorite poets. (Can you hear me clear my throat?)
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond any experience,your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the color of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands ee cummings