But today...I feel
as delicate as a robin's egg
as fragile as a dragonfly's wing
like the incomparably blue petals of the chicory flowers that I picked, not knowing that they'd shrivel into barely visible nothings before he could see them. Who would think that a weed would do that?
And what I should do, because I feel this way, is to throw myself into the risk of that list, to accomplish something, to confront life head on. Should. Do.