When A Dog Runs Up, From A Year With Hafiz: Daily Contemplations By Daniel Ladinsky

𝔠𝔦𝔱𝔶 𝔡𝔞𝔱𝔢

Sometimes it feels like a lie to call myself a poet --

The world is a gorgeous, ethereal place --

All I've ever done is, do my best to use what little words I have to tell you what my eyes have happened to see, and, what my heart has happened to feel.

I'm just another of life's many plagiarists --

Stealing experiences for myself and pretending they're words born from my soul --

So what's the term, then, when the universe's machinations bring me across someone like you, and my heart is filled with so many words that I could write a thousand novels?

A poet?

A thief?

Or simply a woman with a mind, taken, filled to the brim by chance, with desire, need, and affection?

"Could you even describe the warmth of a glowing moon?" V. Rue, 2025.

Where you are understood, you are at home.

John O'Donohue

Ilya Kaminsky, from "A Cigarette", Deaf Republic

lonely, little hands, with the nocturnal scent of generous stars.

- Forough Farrokhzad, Window Poem

Louise Glück, from Faithful and Virtuous Night: Poems; "A Foreshortened Journey,"

𝔦𝔱’𝔰 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔦𝔪𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔰𝔦𝔟𝔩𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔟𝔢 𝔰𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔰𝔣𝔦𝔢𝔡

Coming Home to you is the best Part of my day 🖤.