flowers, from the other night.
reaching upward, still alive.
the better way to be, rather than cut and de-thorned and no longer growing while encased in a glass container.
if you know what i mean.

it’s snowing again outside my window. the magnified whiteness of flat sunlight and the criss-cross of wind-driven snowflakes accompany me this morning. i burn the back of my throat in my haste to swallow hot tea. it’s a jolting reminder to take things a little more slowly.

Mary Szybist, interviewed by The Paris Review:

I turn to poems to find spaces that might enlarge, rather than distill, experience.

I think that a good deal of poetry and art gives us some sense of access to another’s voice, perception, texture of thought, imagination. Sometimes it gives us better access to the strangeness in ourselves.

I am both attracted to and resistant to the idea that poetry and art can be replacements for religion.

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