Poetry Friday: Margaret Atwood

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This has been a week of moments. Some harried and addled. Some bright and beautiful. Some quiet and still. I've tried to enter each one with purpose, to find a place to plant my feet and dig my toes into the shifting hours, brace against the slapping waves of responsibility, and plunge into the next thing with joy. 


This morning, the next thing is to take my dad to the doctor. The next thing after that is time with the lovely Irene Latham this weekend and the Chattahoochee Valley Writer's Conference. 
Wishing you wondrous moments today. And plenty of Poetry Friday at Paper Tigers.

The MomentMargaret Atwood

The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.

Read the rest here.