I am too tired to blog. I let the poets take over while I rest.
I have begun,
when I'm weary and can't decide an answer to a bewildering question
to ask my dead friends for their opinion
and the answer is often immediate and clear.
Should I take the job? Move to the city? Should I try to conceive a child
in my middle age?
They stand in unison shaking their heads and smiling-- whatever leads
to joy, they always answer,
to more life and less worry. I look into the vase where Billy's ashes were--
it's green in there, a green vase,
and I ask Billy if I should return to the difficult phone call and he says, yes.
Billy's already gone through the frightening door,
whatever he says I'll do.