After my few minutes watching the woodpecker after my last post, I picked up – delight! – Charles Wright's new-to-me Sestets. Wright is one of my lights in the darkness. Here are the opening words of his opening poem, which seem to me to articulate, in the beauty of a few well-chosen words, what I was gesturing at in that 'cliff' post:
'The metaphysics of the quotidian was what he was after:
A little dew on the sunrise grass,
A drop of blood in the evening trees,
a drop of fire.
If you don't shine you are darkness...'
The now. All we ever have...
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