This is only a little poem, but it packs a punch;
that's one of my favorite things about Lucille Clifton poetry, I think: it sneaks up
on you.
won't you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my other hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.
~Lucille Clifton (1936-2010), "won't you celebrate with me", from The Book of Light, 1993.
It's still too early in the season for rhubarb, but I bought ramps and
spinach at the farmer's market this morning, and I am going to make a
coffee cake with strawberries this afternoon, rhubarb or no rhubarb. I am
so thrilled about being in Madison through August -- even with the
humidity and the mosquitoes, I love this town in the summer. And I'll be
back in New England for autumn.
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