Thursday

Passing Cloud



I have loved you, even in the houses of the rich, I have loved you.



That one line alone makes Edna St Vincent Millay precious to me.  How difficult it is to hold ourselves upright when all around riches swirl.  Abundance just in reach if only...if only.  This small compromise and maybe another, just as small, is all it would take for any threat of improvishment to become no more than a distant memory.  A vaguely remembered dream.  

But the poets, the poets hold us tight, they will not release us.   The poet inside me will not, cannot, abide my lies.  Or anyone's.  The poet inside me cares nothing for gender, race, riches, or age.  This morning my true name is written in dust. This morning I cannot be threatened any more than could a passing cloud.