Billy Collins

He was the opening night speaker at the (virtual)Tucson Festival of Books this year.  I cleaned the kitchen as he spoke.  

I really wished that he could have been here in person.  His video was fuzzy and I couldn't watch his eyes crinkle as he laughed.  

He laughed a lot.  

He takes the mundane and madness it special.  His is not the poetry of inexplicable symbolism.  He's accessible on a first reading,  though more comes through the more times you posts the words. 

This is the poem he read to me ten years ago,  at a Literary Society luncheon.  It is exactly how I feel today. 

I couldn't say it better,  so I decided not to try. 

Days

Each one is a gift, no doubt,

mysteriously placed in your waking hand

or set upon your forehead

moments before you open your eyes.

Today begins cold and bright,

the ground heavy with snow

and the thick masonry of ice,

the sun glinting off the turrets of clouds.

Through the calm eye of the window

everything is in its place

but so precariously

this day might be resting somehow

on the one before it,

all the days of the past stacked high

like the impossible tower of dishes

entertainers used to build on stage.

No wonder you find yourself

perched on the top of a tall ladder

hoping to add one more.

Just another Wednesday

you whisper,

then holding your breath,

place this cup on yesterday's saucer

without the slightest clink.

by Billy Collins, US Poet Laureate 2001-2003