I want to ponder the radius of the earth as if it was yet to be discovered. I want to burst through doorways with a clear voice singing, intoxicated with life. I want fistfuls of cloud spilling out of my pockets.
A poet is hungry, a poet is very thirsty. A poet dies every day, even as she lives. Only a pilgrim soul would put all her stock in poetry, rest all her matters in the hands of such an elusive music.
I want to be both arrow and shield. I want the dense, substantial blue of an open sky just before nightfall. I want butter and herbs, olives and fish.
The pilgrim is just beginning to understand who she truly is. She sees the world through the eyes of poetry, listens to the world with the ears of poetry.
I want smoke curling up around treetops. I want a silky bun of dark hair tied on top of my head. I want bright eyes and a beginner’s mind.