Gift, by Czeslaw Milosz
A day so happy.
Fog lifted early. I worked in the garden.
Hummingbirds were stopping over honeysuckle flowers.
There was no thing on earth I wanted to possess.
I knew no one worth my envying him.
Whatever evil I had suffered, I forgot.
To think that once I was the same man did not embarrass me.
In my body I felt no pain.
When straightening up, I saw the blue sea and sails.
Poetry is everywhere. The other day I was talking to a poet friend, George Staehle, about an acceptance he’d gotten recently for a poem he’d sent out years earlier. The thing is, the journal had published his poem — two years earlier — but they’d forgotten to tell him about it. They sent him a copy of the journal (from a college in Maine) and a very nice note of apology. I looked through the table of contents and noticed that another poet I know, Marie Gauthier, had a poem in that journal. How serendipitous it all is! I love it that they forgot to tell the poet about his poem being out in the world and that he thought it was amusing.
Poets are like that.