Poets seem to speak a different language. The language of the subconscious. They cut through all the clutter and give us a picture of what is deep inside of us, if we are willing to look. They can also just entertain us. Some poems speak to us in a personal way while other poems seem incomprehensible, at least for me.
The art of sifting through the daily news, problems and concerns is not so easy to do. Sometimes things just seem overwhelming. The other day I came across this poem by Door County poet, Ann Heyse, and suddenly my day was lighter. At the end of the poem, there was a smile to my face. So I wanted to share it with you with the hope that at the end, you too will be smiling . Thank you, Ann, for your beautiful words.
On Learning That the Words “Crisis” and “Sift” are Related
I picture my mother’s hands and the silver, mesh sieve. She was not a meticulous cook, but occasionally she took the time to sift flour. Big lumps remained, could not pass through. That’s the point, she told me. Only that which is willing to be broken down gets through. Heartbreak, infection, isolation: they sift us. What matters falls in. On a walk, I see a neighbor Hungry to hear each other speak, we discuss books at a six-foot distance. In the afternoons, I drive out to see birch trees, fields in thaw, and ice breaking up in the harbor. The gulls have returned. Our children call. While my husband reads the recipe to me, I mix scones. We laugh when the blueberries spill. I memorize Psalms. He plays guitar. I read. What does not matter does not make it through.
~ Ann Heyse