Life is the only way
to get covered in leaves,
catch your breath on the sand,
rise on wings;
to be a dog,
or stroke its warm fur;
to tell pain
from everything it's not;
to squeeze inside events,
dawdle in views,
to seek the least of all possible mistakes.
An extraordinary chance
to remember for a moment
a conversation held
with the lamp switched off;
and if only once
to stumble upon a stone,
end up soaked in one downpour or another,
mislay your keys in the grass;
and to follow a spark on the wind with your eyes;
and to keep on not knowing
something important.
Szymborska, Wislawa. Monologue of a Dog. United States, HMH Books, 2015.
Why I chose this poem
When I read this, there is a spaciousness in the imagery, a moment of feeling before I can even begin to understand the words. It's like each ephemeral image holds its own ephemeral pause. And I feel it at the end, that life is the only way to keep on not knowing something important.