I was asked: What is poetry for?
Here am I, once again, a honey bee buzzing around the flowers on a tapestry, knowing all is but an illusion, yet such illusions are all I know. My life dissolves into verse.
I am beginning to understand why poetry exists. Feelings distilled. A distillation of emotion. Rumi does this: “My heart is so small, it’s almost invisible. How can you place such big sorrows in it?” Poetry… reveals a path to hope, if we ever lose it. Perhaps poetry is only for sorrow. It’s the only form that can handle it. I want to live a poetic life, seeing little stanzas in morning light, in trees, in apples on the table. Telescopes and lenses, staring into the night sky. Star Light is Distant Light. Eyes as simple orbs. All in a supreme vastness.
To distill—
to remove impurities from, to purify
to increase the concentration of
to extract the essence of
to raise to a higher status
to sublimate strange, yes strange.
to drop, trickle, drip, fall in drops
