Some girlfriends had a laugh last night about the prior post, in which I mentioned I was writing to keep our mothers connected from afar, then proceeded to swear repeatedly like the sailor/cook that I was long ago. All about that era has mellowed, except the foul mouth, which I find oh so satisfying to use at choice moments. And a lot of other moments as well. I know I swear too much, and I don't really think fixing it is one of the important personal improvements on my list of pressing personal improvements. So...
Anyway, I saw this poem this morning and it spoke to me.
A THOUSAND MORNINGS
All night my heart makes its way
however it can over the rough ground
of uncertainties, but only until night
meets and then is overwhelmed by
morning, the light deepening, the
wind easing and just waiting, as I
too wait (and when have I ever been
disappointed?) for redbird to sing.
by Mary Oliver