Saturday, July 08, 2006

A poem by Linda Pastan

What We Want

What we want
is never simple.
We move among the things
we thought we wanted:
a face, a room, an open book
and these things bear our names—
now they want us.
But what we want appears
in dreams, wearing disguises.
We fall past,
holding out our arms
and in the morning
our arms ache.
We don't remember the dream,
but the dream remembers us.
It is there all day
as an animal is there
under the table,
as the stars are there
even in full sun.


Peg said...

Very good made me think about how I downsize all the time. I guess I don't want anything to want me. It places a burden on one. I never thought about the stars still being there even when the sun is out. I liked the poem. Keep on blogging. ( I like that word.)

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