“Anguish is always there, lurking at night,
wakes us up like a scourge, the creeping sweat
As rage is remembered, self-inflicted blight.
What is it in us we have not mastered yet?
What Hell have we made of subtle weaving
Of nerve with brain, that all centers tear?
We live in a dark complex of rage and grieving.
The machine gates, grates, whatever we are.”
ーMay Sarton, A Grain of Mustard Seed
The ballad of May Sarton.
Beauty, resilience, nature and self.
Sinking in those lyrics and thinking,
what’s more beautiful than love is the discovery of poetry.
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