![]() ![]() ![]() Then, of course, the sun sets and we see above us the dark dome of glittering stars. And when the world of every cell has been limned and painted and sung, we lie back on the grass, satisfied that our work is done. Beyond that, the city, then the rolling hills, then the sea. We may crawl around the cathedral floor for ages before we grow up enough to reach the doorknob and walk outside into a garden of delights. That means there’s no end to the discovery. When we manage to make something pretty, it’s only so because we are ourselves a flourish on a greater canvas. We aren’t writers, but gleeful rearrangers of words whose meanings we can’t begin to know. We can hardly make anything beautiful that wasn’t beautiful in the first place. “I am convinced that poets are toddlers in a cathedral, slobbering on wooden blocks and piling them up in the light of the stained glass. ![]()
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