poetry for a Sunday morning...

I have been roaming the Internet instead of walking in Highland Park. I have been blog-walking. Which is often easier, often harder.

I don't know which is which.

It is December, and while I love this month, I love this time of year, it is also a time of busy busy busy. Someone has to work at the stores so that other people can shop at 7 am. Someone has to play the music so that other people can sit and listen. Someone has to catalogue the books so that other people can find them on the shelf.

Okay, so that last one isn't a December lament, but I wanted three. And it makes it personal. Well, the whole bit is personal. Anyways. (Actually, it is a December lament, since it's my lament in the month of...nevermind.)

Poetry is often how my soul gets soothed. So I bring you some poetry.

This one asks a big question that I'm not prepared to answer: Variations on the word love by Margaret Atwood. (I love MA's poetry.)

This one, by Naomi Shehab Nye, brings it home, and makes it bigger than you and me. Which I need it to be. Because two people aren't enough. (WHERE IS MY COPY OF ABOUT A BOY??): Before you know what kindness really is. (linked from bobbie)

It's raining. I think I'll walk to Tazza and get my breakfast sandwich. I meant to take a longer walk, a walk all around the park, but this will have to do.