By Anne Sexton
I am not lazy.
I am not on the amphetamine of the soul.
I am, each day,
typing out the God
my typewriter believes in.
Very quick. Very intense,
like a wolf at a live heart.
When a lazy man, they say,
looks toward heaven,
the angels close the window.
keep the windows open
so that I may reach in
and steal each object,
objects that tell me the sea is not dying,
objects that tell me the dirt has a life-wish,
that the Christ who walked for me,
walked on true ground
and that this frenzy,
like bees stinging the heart all morning,
will keep the angels
with their windows open,
wide as an English bathtub.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
LOVE this poem. It hits me with such truth and deep, personal applicability today.
We are headed to Southern Pines for the weekend, to see both sets of our parents and, most of all, to meet precious baby Georgia! (Georgia being my parents-in-laws’ new puppy.) I can’t wait. I just hope Pyrrha plays gently and doesn’t try to snack on the wee babe.
Oh, and Happy Anna Howard Shaw Day!