And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass
I’ve posted this short poem before. Every time I stumble across it, it’s like finding it for the first time. A thrill of excitement, of recognition even though I don’t really remember it. Like suddenly seeing your beloved across a crowded room.
It reminds me of Robert Burn’s poem about the “Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie,” but it also leads me to a different place, as well.
That absence where the grass does not shake, it’s more full than anything I can imagine.
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