glurg.

I feel kind of ill today. So instead of blogging, I'm just going to give you another Sunday poem. Too bad if you don't like poems. You can just not read it. It'll be Rilke again, I think, just because I finished The Book of Hours yesterday, and I'm starting back through, trying to really digest it. Rilke is a little cerebral for me to love, but I think the last two lines of this particular poem thorougly redeem it.

I find you there in all these things
I care for like a brother.
A seed, you nestle in the smallest of them,
and in the huge ones spread yourself hugely.

Such is the amazing play of the powers:
they give themselves so willingly,
swelling in the roots, thinning as the trunks rise,
and in the high branches, resurrection.