While in Portland last week, I made a point of meeting a certain mole, whose remarkable blog I continued to read even when my own voice had gone silent. I return to him for his perspectives on his Buddhist practice, especially his ability (and willingness) to write lucidly from states of confusion and despair. We also have some things in common, notably literary educations that ground our world-views but don't quite explain our careers. Now and then he treats us to a humorous drawing, or more often, a poem.
(Poetry, like fiction, is something I'm trained to critique but can't begin to produce. The mole produces some gems.)
Tonight I find he has aimed a poem at me. It condenses and dignifies several threads of our conversation, including my compulsive botanizing, my philosophical obsessions, and my current adventure in Australia. It hits all sorts of targets, but I especially love moments when the 'he' could be either of us. Like this one:
He looks for a place so empty
That it can hold the baroque without cloying.