I was a bit early for a meeting...so popped into a book shop in Old Street station to wile away the time.
It was a small shop with books everywhere. Did not feel like they were organised in any way, but I am sure there was method to the madness.
Felicity by Mary Oliver caught my eye. It was a tiny book, about 60 pages maybe a bit more. I flipped through it and I landed on page 27. I have always liked the number 27. It felt like I was meant to read this page.
The poem on that page was about a cricket. The poem sounded kind, is filled with kindness, made me think of endings and belonging.
I bought the book. I am now the type of person who reads poetry.
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Nothing is too small not to be wondered about - Mary Oliver
The cricket doesn’t wonder
if there’s a heaven
or, if there is, if there’s room for him.
It’s fall. Romance is over. Still, he sings.
If he can, he enters a house
through the tiniest crack under the door.
Then the house grows colder.
He sings slower and slower.
Then, nothing.
This must mean something, I don’t know what.
But certainly it doesn’t mean
he hasn’t been an excellent cricket
all his life.