Rilke Strikes Again

I love you, gentlest of Ways,
who ripened us as we wrestled with you.

You, the great homesickness we could never shake off,
you, the forest that always surrounded us,

you, the song we sang in every silence,
you dark net threading through us,

You began yourself so greatly
on that day when you began us-
and we have so ripened in your sunlight
spreading far and firmly planted-
that now in all people, angels, madonnas,
you can decide: the work is done.

Let your hand rest on the rim of Heaven now
and mutely bear the darkness we bring over you.

-Rilke

This poem felt perfect for my mood on this rainy autumn day. A little melancholy, a little tired, a little too angsty to the point that I thought, "seriously? am I still 13?". But, beside those feelings, the brightness of the first coloful leaves, excitement about the second date and dine night with Joe and the gentle nudging to be a better me that I've been feeling this week that has left me secure in the "forest that always surrounded [me]" but disappointed about the darkness I can add to the world. Ah, poetry.

A suggestion

Dear Reader,

Someday you may live in an apartment. It might be on the second floor of a large house. You might have a two-year-old and wood floors. You might have a young married couple of, oh, I don't know... 27 years old, living beneath you. Maybe, just maybe, you should not give your small child a game play with that includes hurling solid objects (blocks? jacks? small rock? chicken bones (maybe she's a seer?)? ) onto the aforementioned wood floors thereby causing repetitive loud crashes for hours and hours and hours because some small children don't really feel the need for a new game. Just a suggestion.

Sincerely,
Sara