Since speaking to you of poetry...

I've gone back on a Writers' Almanac binge, and rediscovered many poems that I know and love, as well as finding new ones to excite me.

All goes back to the earth,

and so I do not desire

pride of excess or power,

but the contentments made

by men who have had little:

the fisherman’s silence

receiving the river’s grace,

the gardener’s musing on rows.

I lack the peace of simple things.

I am never wholly in place.

I find no peace or grace.

We sell the world to buy fire,

our way lighted by burning men,

and that has bent my mind

and made me think of darkness

and wish for the dumb life of roots.

- "The Want of Peace," by Wendell Berry