ENCOUNTER

We were riding through frozen fields in a wagon at dawn.
A red wing rose in the darkness.

And suddenly a hare ran across the road.
One of us pointed to it with his hand.

That was long ago. Today neither of them is alive
Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture.

O my love, where are they, where are they going
The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles.
I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder.



--Poem by Czeslaw Milosz, translated by the author and Lillian Vallee. From "The Body Electric," edited by Stephen Berg, David Bonanno and Arthur Vogelsang (W.W. Norton). I love this poem.

I've done everything but ambush Blogger headquarters with knives, Derringers and enraged barracudas to try and get a new template -- including several attempts to sign up on another free blog site, all to no avail. I now DESPISE this template, especially because it only has a long, boring index when one might choose to log on.

Not that anyone reads here, anyway. I've decided not to care. Decided that the most profound and explicit word to describe life and its meaning therein, up to and including all the ontological nonsense that's been spewed by any and all the brain mavens, psychologically tortured (and torturing), wannabes, would-bes, neverbes, once-wases and pathetic poseurs over the course of human history (you know who you are!) is ... and always will be: