a sparrow, a foghorn, a grassblade

The Writer's Almanac's post for tomorrow:

What I Understood

by Katha Pollitt

When I was a child I understood everything
about, for example, futility. Standing for hours
on the hot asphalt outfield, trudging for balls
I'd ask myself, how many times will I have to perform
this pointless task, and all the others? I knew
about snobbery, too, and cruelty—for children
are snobbish and cruel—and loneliness: in restaurants
the dignity and shame of solitary diners
disabled me, and when my grandmother
screamed at me, "Someday you'll know what it's like!"
I knew she was right, the way I knew
about the single rooms my teachers went home to,
the pictures on the dresser, the hoard of chocolates,
and that there was no God, and that I would die.
All this I understood, no one needed to tell me.
the only thing I didn't understand
was how in a world whose predominant characteristics
are futility, cruelty, loneliness, disappointment
people are saved every day
by a sparrow, a foghorn, a grassblade, a tablecloth.
This year I'll be
thirty-nine, and I still don't understand it.

"What I Understood" by Katha Pollitt, from The Mind-Body Problem. © Random House, 2009.

I try to seek and find poetry that speaks to something within me, something that resonates. I read selfishly, clinging to words I find truth in, wanting someone to know the shape of what this feels like. I try to think of what I'm saved by. The fire escape, the pigeons strutting down sidewalks, the little dog attached to the little leash.

I miss the foghorn sounding in the night, the curls of waves licking shore.

I am so deeply sad, and I can't explain to you why.