keep singing

My brother Pete died fifteen years ago in March, which is kind of crazy to think about. How can it have been fifteen years? How has it only been fifteen years? (Maybe less the second one, but later this month I turn 41, which is the age he was when he died, and that sure makes me feel some type of way.) Grief is a very strange thing, and sometimes poetry helps me understand it better, or at least feel less alone in something that is often isolating, even while being completely universal. Since 2012—or 2011, I guess, if you count the original day—I've been posting grief poems on April 5, the anniversary of the day we held his memorial.

This poem is from Gregory Orr's How Beautiful the Beloved, which is a whole book of perfect little gems like this one.

Grief will come to you.
Grip and cling all you want,
It makes no difference.

Catastrophe? It's just waiting to happen.
Loss? You can be certain of it.

Flow and swirl of the world.
Carried along as if by a dark current.

All you can do is keep swimming;
All you can do is keep singing.

—Gregory Orr, "Grief will come to you," from How Beautiful the Beloved (Copper Canyon Press, 2008).

ready to start again

Hi everyone, did you know that it is somehow already April?! Yeah, I don't know where the hell this year has gone. 2026 has not been super kind to us, so far, but there have been some lights in the darkness, and poetry is always one of them for me. If you're new here (who is new here in 2026, lol), I will be posting a poem every day (more or less) from now until April 30 in celebration of National Poetry Month. This year is the 30th anniversary of NPM, which started in 1996; I started posting poems in 2007, so next year will be my 20th anniversary. Time sure does keep happening.

As I always say, I'm never exactly sure, going in, what any year's April will bring, but I hope you'll enjoy the journey with me. ♥

I saw this poem on Instagram in the middle of the month last April and immediately put it on my spreadsheet to open this year. Sometimes I can stick to a plan!

Maybe January was never meant
to be the beginning.
Maybe the year starts slowly
on purpose—
a quiet stretch,
a deep inhale,
the soft ache of waking up.

Maybe February was shaking off,
and March was the gathering
of strength—
a slow return to ourselves.

And maybe April
is when it really begins.
When the light lingers,
when our hearts beat louder,
when we are truly ready
to start again—
not because we should,
but because we're finally
warm enough to want to.

—Kaylin Weir, "April Theory," posted to Instagram on April 13, 2025.

the instant when love begins

Lucy and I got married (for the second time!) three months ago today, on January 25. At our wedding, this wonderful and classic Mary Oliver poem was one of our readings, and as it turns out I haven't posted it before—which is kind of wild, but I could post nothing but Mary Oliver poems for the next five to ten years and never run out or repeat anything because there are so many and they are all perfect! Anyway, this is an important one. And as almost always with Mary Oliver, I try to live with this one in my heart.

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,
don't hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty
of lives and whole towns destroyed or about
to be. We are not wise, and not very often
kind. And much can never be redeemed.
Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this
is its way of fighting back, that sometimes
something happens better than all the riches
or power in the world. It could be anything,
but very likely you notice it in the instant
when love begins. Anyway, that's often the
case. Anyway, whatever it is, don't be afraid
of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.

—Mary Oliver (1935-2019), "Don't Hesitate," from Swan (2010).