the feast, we are not willing to share. How many do you hold in your arms, you perfect one? Thousands & I still love you! My love is fierce. Does your green & blue fill them with serenity, while their breath leaves your tender, watery grib? Do they feel you, promise? A life of dreams seemed almost close.
(At least six humans die in the mediterranean every day. I will be here for thirteen days.)
So, while collecting about 50 pieces of plastic garbage on the empty morning beach, I feel like a steward of the earth for just a second & think about a line of poetry by Wendell Berry,
There are no unsacred places. There are only sacred places. And desecrated places.
Bending over for yet another piece of plastic, I think: How much …