Now through the white orchard my little dog
Romps, breaking the new snow
With wild feet.
Running here running there, excited,
Hardly able to stop, he leaps, he spins
Until the white snow is written upon
In large, exuberant letters,
A long sentence, expressing
The pleasures of the body in the world.
Oh, I could not have said it better myself.
A dog playing is a woman composing poetry. A child crying is a tree falling in the night. A polluted Gulf is white icing on a cupcake. Isn’t it time we quite pretending that you and I are different; from each other, from the cause of our demise, and from the source of all joy and beauty?
Where does feeling like you don’t belong or are different keep you from joy?