I read that this year the ground cracked,
rumbled and burped, ate whole buildings
and families, threw cars, swallowed trees
and threw a poor nation into despondency.
Also, a cap flew off,
I hear, in the ocean, causing crude oil to cruise
along the ocean's tides, not refined enough
to leave the pelicans and dolphins, fish
and seaweed alone.
And today I sit
at my small octagonal breakfast table, hot tea
securely warming my hand, reading
while eating whole-grain toast, its goodness
drenched in sweet butter.
Today I am happy. For this, I apologize.
Sara, I think what I really love about your poetry (and what may be the gift of good poetry in general) is the way you say so much, so quietly. This feels light. It feels carefree and unconcerned. And it is. And it isn't. And I love it. For its honesty and complexity . . . for the way it captures life.
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