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Serendipity is wiser than owls or oak trees. That’s a lot of wisdom. More cunning than coyotes? Possibly, but wisdom and chance take a different stance. They stand outside the rules of the game. A win is not that different from a loss. The results swap places when your back is turned. Swaddled in the crumpled flags of defeat are newborn urges, inklings, impulses, quickenings.

‘Every happiness,’ writes Rilke in his Sonnets to Orpheus, ‘is the child of a separation it did not think it could survive.’

Really?  Really, Rainer? Are you sure? Every happiness?

He nods a mute affirmative, a silent yes marked by the certainty earned from 90 years of being over-the-fence-neighbours friendly with death.

Okay. I take a big deep breath. The kind that shudders away the wobbles and spurs me to put on my hiking boots, do up the laces, and walk out into the morning.

What is Present, not precious?

This entry was posted in Conversation thief, Non-parabolic trajectory, Poetry, Present, not precious - November 2016 and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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