I moved through September shell-shocked by a traumatic and sudden family bereavement, living day by day and letting whatever came unfold. At the funeral, I stumbled through this poem by Robert Graves:
The butterfly, the cabbage white,
(His honest idiocy of flight)
Will never now, it is too late,
Master the art of flying straight,
Yet has — who knows so well as I? —
A just sense of how not to fly:
He lurches here and here by guess
And God and hope and hopelessness.
Even the aerobatic swift
Has not his flying-crooked gift.
Last week I wrote a poem and had an acceptance from a magazine I've pestered with submissions for several years. Life - my life - goes on.
The North - Together Apart issue and Kim Moore's All the men I never married (Seren)