In a no-panic break from my no-panic Advent, I am spending a few quiet moments with Billy Collins.
This poem is not related to winter, December, Advent, Christmas, or any current theme or obsession of mine. It's just a lovely little piece that says so much, in very few words.
The last line is perfection. The poem is short, but stay with it -- it's not about the suburbs.
It's about her.
by Billy Collins
There is no noisier place than the suburbs,
someone once said to me
as we were walking along a fairway,
and every day is delighted to offer fresh evidence:
the chainsaw, the leaf-blower blowing
one leaf around an enormous house with columns,
(read the rest of it here.)
The whole Poetry Friday round-up is at Wild Rose Reader.