This twelvemonth, the birds sat on the housetops; the little minutes were four thousand books. On the table, such odd trifles kept your attention. Young lovers met; some of what you heard was the sea. Come away. Let the grey paper confer with the eggshells and the brass horse. Let summer wash its face and stand in the pasture and gather up its green buttons. For pleasure its flowers on the table, and you are non plus. What I had, I spent on flowers.
The poetry and prose of Ross Gay (1974-) so often reminds me of all the beauty and joy in this intense world we navigate every day.
for Keith and Jen
Friends I am here to modestly report seeing in an orchard in my town a goldfinch kissing a sunflower again and again dangling upside down by its tiny claws steadying itself by snapping open like an old-timey fan its wings again and again, until, swooning, it tumbled off and swooped back to the very same perch, where the sunflower curled its giant swirling of seeds around the bird and leaned back to admire the soft wind nudging the bird’s plumage, and friends I could see the points on the flower’s stately crown soften and curl inward as it almost indiscernibly lifted the food of its body to the bird’s nuzzling mouth whose fervor I could hear from oh 20 or 30 feet away and see from the tiny hulls that sailed from their good racket, which good racket, I have to say was making me blush, and rock up on my tippy-toes, and just barely purse my lips with what I realize now was being, simply, glad, which such love, if we let it, makes us feel.