Below is a beautiful poem by Donald Hall called Summer Kitchen which he wrote after the death of his wife Jane. It reminds me of my childhood, particularly my mother’s place in it. She, too, saw miracles in the ordinary.
It’s not uncommon for a rabbit to die of fright.
Even though I finished reading it more than a week ago, Rupi Kaur's The Sun and Her Flowers is still all up in my ness.
what is stronger
than the human heart
which shatters over and over
and still lives
Although I'm much closer to the beginning of Will Kostakis' The Sidekicks than I am the end I can already tell that this book is gonna cost me something along the way.
"...I want to say Isaac lived a full life and retroactively justify him not being here by saying he lived more in his sixteen years than most ever would, but that isn't true. He didn't live enough, he didn't love enough, he didn't see enough, and if there's a lesson in all this—do more. You don't know how long you have. Do what makes you happy. Live, love and be remarkable."