The attempt to separate my soul from yours
is like wringing out a handkerchief
wet from something spilled.
Emily and the Bobcat – Stephanie Emily Dickinson
1897. I trailed my brother Josef past the already darkening ditch. He
carried our grandfather’s musket and willed us to find the bobcat that
had eaten our sheep. In the hour before dusk, I knew the cat awoke
in his den, the hollow of a felled tree and its crumbling guts.
The Writer’s Almanac again did not physically post their poem of the day, but here it is anyway:
Sunrise – Mary Oliver
die for it-
or the world. People
have done so,
Heritage – Claude McKay
Now the dead past seems vividly alive,
And in this shining moment I can trace,
Down through the vista of the vanished years,
Your faun-like form, your fond elusive face.