Every now and then I run across a poem that speaks so strongly to me in a certain moment. The poem that I am posting today arrived into my life this afternoon as I was leafing through books of poetry at Parma Regional Library. There was a middle-aged bespectacled man with kind eyes standing on the other side of the shelf and we smiled at one another over the stacks and when I looked down this was staring up at me:
His shirt
does not show his
true colors. Ice-
blue and of stuff
so common
anyone
could have bought it,
his shirt
is known only
to me, and only
at certain times
of the day.
At dawn
it is a flag
in the middle
of a square
waiting to catch
chill light.
Unbuttoned, it's
a sail suprised
by boundless joy.
In candlelight at turns
a penitent's
scarf or beggar's
fleece, his shirt is
inapproachable.
It is the very shape
and tint
of desire
and could be mistaken
for something quite
fragile and
ordinary.
-Rita Dove
I had the opportunity to meet Rita Dove two weeks ago and I missed it. I was completely heartbroken for a while and I picked up this book today as a kind of sweet penance. But after reading this poem, I feel like I've already met her and like she knows me and what I think every second of every day. Especially lately.
I think I'm going to be alright this weekend.
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