Contemplations on life and death

But fortunately not my contemplations! I wanted to share with you a short excerpt from a poem by one of my favorite poets: Billy Collins. This is from his book Nine Horses, which is excellent. Almost as good as Picnic, Lightning. (I realize I signed an agreement not to post copyrighted material on this blog; however with my understanding of copyright laws, a brief excerpt from a copyrighted book is okay.)

In this poem, Billy Collins wanders from room to room in his house, musing which room would be the most fitting in which to die.

I will quit these dark, angular rooms
and drive along a country road
into the larger rooms of the world,
so vast and speckled, so full of ink and sorrow--

a road that cuts through bare woods
and tangles of red and yellow bittersweet
these late November days.

And maybe under the fallen wayside leaves
there is hidden a nest of mice,
each one no bigger than a thumb,
a thumb with closed eyes,
a thumb with whiskers and a tail,
each one contemplating the sweetness of grass
and the startling brevity of life.

Of note, I have my good friend Matthew to thank for introducing me (in the literary sense) to Billy Collins. I have yet to meet him in person, but my autographed copy of Picnic, Lightning is a treasured possession!