Something pretty

The days fly. At first there was only one, then two, which made a week, then two, and on until it's been more than a month. Where have I been? What has kept my attention? I could say, "life," and that would seem to explain it all. And yet, it hasn't seemed like enough. Especially today. When, after another mind-numbing day at work, another hurried dinner and more homework and laundry, I decide to go somewhere I haven't been in ages.

Poets.org

And I find out that one of my favorites is celebrating his hundredth birthday. Or at least he would, if he were still alive.

W.H. Auden.

I can't find the words to explain why I love his work so much. Especially since his words are so much better than my own.

The More Loving One
by W. H. Auden

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.

Somehow, there should always be time for the pretty things: poetry, friendship, love. And yet those are the first things to go when you're just trying to get through a chain of days.

But today, there was time for something pretty. And I feel much more like myself again.