The sense of adventure is strong on me as it is for all living things. Wasn’t it Auden who said the roses really want to grow?
Last night under the oaks I sensed it from the branches. The coming minutes are heady and unbounded. This is steepened by knowing no two people are alike, no two trees. As a boy I often lay face down in the grass. I didn’t have anyplace to go. Because of my blindness other children shunned me. But I got it: staying still was exploit.
Grasping this is luck. Keeping it alive is work throughout a life as the older poets know. I swear this luck-hoard successfully kept is why crows descend daily to the roof of Coleridge’s tomb.
Whatever you do, don’t be sentimental. The roses want to grow but even they have aphids. Nature knows how to stomp your adventure before you get started. You can be forgiven a dark joke. Why do orphans like playing tennis? Because it’s the only love they get. Basho: ah the pine tree, another thing that will never be my friend.
The decayed rowboat still seats laboring souls. Adventure stays if the poet discerns it.
What’s aspiration? Things are not what they seem. Lawrence’s apples are mystic. Eat one. I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself.