A recent widow is sorting through her late husband’s things and giving some away. A book of poems comes to me called, appropriately enough, “Dear Anyone.” It was written by William Keens, a poet I’ve never heard of.
The timing is good, however, because I feel kind of lost today and poetry is often a nourishing companion at such times. So, I page through William Keens’ book—which is beautifully printed on handmade paper—and pick out this poem:
“I take the dog out,” he writes. “It is 4 a.m.
A plain expanse of stars pours down overhead…
I can see moonlight and the earth’s light surface
and want not to be bound by these.”
I stop reading and nod my head; this stranger is speaking for me. He continues:
“I raise my arms and drift, thinking,
This is bigger. This is house for a spirit…
Below me, a dog and a man. The man
looks up and waves.”
I close the book and feel my sadness lift. A book that came to me by chance turns out to be exactly what I need. Which makes me believe what I say I believe: that everything is connected.
And this comforts me in ways I cannot explain. Dear Anyone, thank you.