I have taught myself joy, over and over again.
It’s not such a wide gulf to cross, then,
from survival to poetry.
After all, joy, too, rides the wave of impermanence.
I think I knew that or at least had assumed it but assumptions are light weight, if they have any merit at all. Joy is full-bodied, serious in significance, its own gravity.
Is it the secret to survival? Maybe or maybe not. I think it is.
Crossing the gulf to poetry–whatever form that may take–is not a river too wide. Nothing grounds me like a poem. Nothing. It brings me to life right where I am; I survive only to learn all over again.
Sometimes the poetry of Sunday overflows into Monday. It is the teaching of joy.