We want the spring to come and the winter to pass.
We want whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss – we want more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass, say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:
I am living…
Marie Howe, American poet, What the Living Do
With thanks to allchannels.blogspot.com