1
It is time to float on the waters of the night. Time to wrap my arms around this book and press it to my chest, life preserver in a sea of unremarkable men and women, anonymous faces on the street, a hundred thousand unalphabetized things, a million forgotten hours.Billy Collins
2
This is what I think aboutwhen I shovel compostinto a wheelbarrow, and when I fill the long flower boxes, then press into rowsthe limp roots of red impatiens–the instant hand of Deathalways ready to burst forthfrom the sleeve of his voluminous cloak. Then the soil is full of marvels, bits of leaf like flakes off a fresco, red-brown pine needles, a beetle quickto burrow back under the loam. Then the wheelbarrow is a wilder blue, the clouds a brighter white, and all I hear is the rasp of the steel edgeagainst a round stone, the small plants singingwith lifted faces, and the clickof the sundialas one hour sweeps into the next.Billy Collins