It is so much harder to write coherently or intelligently when I am sick – I’m coming back from the tail end of one of the worst migraines I’ve ever had, which saw me faint at work. That’s one way of getting out of a tedious meeting!
The upshot, however, is that I’m in the post-migraine-blagh – no intellect, no energy, and certainly no capacity for wisdom. So, just because it’s a beautiful poem, I’m going to rely on the wisdom and beauty that is Mary Oliver’s writing, in the hopes that tomorrow I might come up with something worthwhile on my own.
Here it is:
Freshen the flowers, she said.
So I put them in the sink, for the cool porcelain was tender,
and took out the tattered and cut each stem on a slant,
trimmed the black and raggy leaves, and set them all –
roses, delphiniums, daisies, iris, lilies,
and more whose names I do’t know, in bright new water –
a bounce upward at the end to let them take
their own choice of position, the wheels, the spurs,
the little sheds of the buds. It took, to do this,
perhaps fifteen minutes.
Fifteen minutes of music
with noting playing.