I heard a poem last night that so touched me I had to find and read it again. It's William Stafford's "Ask Me," and it begins like this:
Some time when the river is ice ask me
mistakes I have made. Ask me whether
what I have done is my life.
You can read the rest of it here--why don't you go do that now?
I have been thinking a lot about time, and whether "what I have done is my life," which is just a wonderful--and difficult--question. But it speaks to me now in the context of all the life-balance questions I keep blogging about over at IHE; this week's post seemed particularly to hit home with some readers, one of whom comments, helpfully, that "time itself has no flexibility--it passes." That might sound depressing, but I actually find it helpful in thinking about how I want to experience the passing of time (hmm, I'm about to break into a James Taylor song here).
So that's my poetry Friday post; there's a round-up at Anastasia Suen's Picture Book of the Day.