Almost There
Almost There Last night this morning I lay in the indefinite dark not thinking about the planet or its governments, two common sleep-deprivers. Not thinking at all. But feeling a gift, water in the desert, fill the place where thoughts form and wash them away. The surf-like rhythm slowed my breath in time to “It will be ok.” I know. I know. “It” may not mean human or even planet, but “It will be ok,” is what it left on the tideline: the potency of absence, Keats’ negative capability. Make of that what you will. I will. S. Robbins, September 18, 2020, from Readings
Sherry Robbins 