amazing

In the very moments I was typing out the marigold poem for you, P., sweet P., was typing out the very same poem in Spanish on his blog, here. He carries his laptop to the bathroom with him (where he seems to do some of his best thinking), and when he came out, he caught me having just clicked the "publish" button. Check out the time stamps. We posted in the very same minute.

Last night we spent some time reading poems to each other (it's happened before, and it's one of my favorite things). He read Garcia Lorca, and since Williams seemed to match the tone, I read to him the marigold poem. And it seems those images stayed with both of us.

There are always moments of wonder like these with P., moments that make me aware of how much more deeply connected we are than I'm often aware of.

There's something about that poem... the first time I encountered it, it was read aloud to me, too. I can't remember all the details of the circumstance-- I think what happened was this: Zack and Roxanne (two people I adore) had come to visit me my first or second year in graduate school. We visited a used bookstore together, and I think we all came back with books. Picture from Breughel was mine. Somehow we wound up passing around books of poetry and reading to each other. Zack found the marigold poem. Bless him wherever he is.

The three of us had taken a poetry-writing class together in college. The class met in the evening, and it was always dark when we left. I remember walking out of class into the cool spring nights with them, looking up at the moon, filled with poetry and love for them and every other person in the class, and for Professor A., whom one would never suspect of being able to teach a poetry workshop in such a way as that. It was beautiful to me that, long after the class, the three of us would be reading poems to each other. It's similarly beautiful to me, that years and years after that, I still have someone to read and listen to poems with.

I don't want poetry month to end.