Ink.

We have a poet Laureate in this town of 22,000 people, and have had for at least a decade.  Her job is to lift us into a place where we remember to breathe.

Here’s a bit the current PL recently posted on facebook that has stuck in my heart like cupid’s dart:

“Someone forgot to tell
the cello what is possible

unearthly notes flying
at fierce angles

past frozen suns, this stringed creature
who believes so deeply

in line that points disappear
and the sky becomes

an imagined space beyond
orchestral navigation beyond

what is possible. Someone forgot
to tell the cello.”

GW Raspberry, “Eight String Religion” from As Though It Could Be Otherwise

Thanks Terry.

thanks, Gary.

I feel the same way about morning glories.  And I’m a cello player, even.