Your poem for the day. As always, reprinted without permission.
"Tell them I'm struggling to sing with angels who hint at it in
black words printed on old paper gold edged by time.
Tell them I wrestle the mirror every morning.
Tell them I sit here invisible in space, nose running, coffee cold,
Tell them I tell them everything and everything is never enough.
Tell them I'm davening & voices rise up from within to startle children.
Tell them I walk off into the woods to sing.
Tell them I sing loudest next to waterfalls.
Tell them the books get fewer, words go deeper, some take months to get through.
Tell them there are months when it's all perfect; above
'n' below, it's perfect, even in moments in between where
Sparks in space (terrible, beautiful sparks in space)
are merely metaphors for the void between
one pore and another."