The Storm

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?