Richard Wilbur's poetry leaves me breathless, always, in one way or another, leaves me flying. And so how appropriate this poem is for today, and for always, and for every moment when I feel that I know how to do something I never knew how to do.
by Richard Wilbur
Treetops are not so high
Nor I so low
That I don't instinctively know
How it would be to fly
(Read the whole thing here, at The Writer's Almanac.)
I'll be in and out quite a bit on Friday, so I'm posting this today. Please leave your links with my ever-reliable administrative assistant, Mr. Linky. For an unpaid intern, I find his work to be stellar, if occasionally cheeky. Just click on through and he'll handle the details. Feel free, too, to leave a comment, say hello, stop over for coffee (do you take cream?) or to drop off some chocolate. Or, if it's more your style, you can link-and-run. I'm okay with that, too.
I've already added an early bird, and I look forward to hearing from the rest of you!