Knife
I do a bit of yoga every morning, if only to convince myself that the rust, although never sleeping, has not yet won. And when I am tempted to let the rust win, I tell myself that if I do a little yoga, I can read a little poem. Like this one, from Mary Oliver's . Which, as she makes clear, isn't about the bird.
Knife
Mary Oliver
Something
just now
moved through my heart
like the thinnest of blades
as that red-tail pumped
once with its great wings
and flew above the gray, cracked
rock wall.
It wasn't Read more about Knife