One cold morning last winter, I was taking Mr Izz to school so I could have the car. He turned on the radio, and tuned in to NPR. I tend to like NPR (National Public Radio, for those that might be reading and are not from the US). Despite it’s more liberal leaning politics, I find them to be far less unbiased than say, Fox News, which I can’t even tolerate. Plus, they have tons of really cool shows on which aren’t in the least political. Our local NPR (North Country Public Radio) has local shows that are wonderful. Things like String Fever, The Folk Show, and Music for a Monday Afternoon are awesome to listen to. I also love that I can find out what’s going on culturally around the area (and believe me, there are too many to choose from up here in the frozen tundra). But these are just the local shows. NPR itself, which is broadcasted nationally, has quite a few really great shows as well. The Thistle and Shamrock is absolutely one of my favourites and Car Talk is always fun to listen to. A Prairie Home Companion is fun as well…but really only for the music. I don’t tend to like some of their skits, for they can bit a bit more risqué for my tastes.

But the one program that I really love on NPR is The Writer’s Almanac. It’s kind of like a “what happened today in the writing world” and then it features a new poem each day. So on that cold car ride to take Mr Izz to school on that very cold day last winter (you see? I didn’t forget what I was talking about!), he tuned in to NPR just in time for The Writer’s Almanac….much to my joy because even though I love it, I tend to forget when it’s on. I listened to the almanac portion, and then Mr Keillor went on to the poem of the day. That particular day, it was a poem entitled “Briefly it Enters, and Briefly Speaks” by Jane Kenyon. It was a beautiful poem to say the least, and one I’d like to share with you all here. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I did.

I am the blossom pressed in a book,
found again after two hundred years. . . .

I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper. . . .

When the young girl who starves
sits down to a table
she will sit beside me. . . .

I am food on the prisoner’s plate. . . .

I am water rushing to the wellhead,
filling the pitcher until it spills. . . .

I am the patient gardener
of the dry and weedy garden. . . .

I am the stone step,
the latch, and the working hinge. . . .

I am the heart contracted by joy. . .
the longest hair, white
before the rest. . . .

I am there in the basket of fruit
presented to the widow. . . .

I am the musk rose opening
unattended, the fern on the boggy summit. . . .

I am the one whose love
overcomes you, already with you
when you think to call my name. . .

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