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| Isabel Allende (b. 1942) |
In the Song of What's Simple
In the song of what's simple but true,
Bent tree rubbing at my window,
I go out. The meadow drenched rivulets of bog.
Moss to my ankles, bright. Toes, shoes, socks all wet flecked.
It might seem ordinary but is not.
The smallest details of living
Need nothing but appreciation
For the candor they bring.
N.N.
All Nights are not the Same
What can we accept about ourselves?
As I sit here at 11 pm I love myself,
My body which feels small,
My heart and mind,
My sore left foot.
Foot, you are mine.
I shan't feel guilty about how I spend my time.
Let's not. Let's ever not.
Emotions and thoughts we'd rather not have? They're OK today.
I do pretty well at living. God has given me that.
The amber sunrise, an azure sky.
No more precious than we.
N.N.
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