Just happened across a Stanley Kunitz poem in my email inbox before heading off for bed late on a Saturday night with nothing to offer to the world outside these walls. An excerpt:
“… Outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
One season only,
and it’s done. …”
A poem’s magic: to take me outside these walls, to put me in a Massachusetts garden hearing the crickets.