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The morning before he died in the final year of his seventies, he drafted a poem containing these lines:

You can’t tell when strange things with meaning

will happen. I’m [still] here writing it down

just the way it was. “You don’t have to

prove anything,” my mother said. “Just be ready

for what God sends.” I listened and put my hand

out in the sun again.

Maria Popova • Yes: William Stafford’s Poetic Calibration of Perspective

Poemas (Portuguese Edition)

Wislawa Szymborska

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I rose this morning early as usual, and went to my desk. But it’s spring, and the thrush is in the woods, somewhere in the twirled branches, and he is singing… I am touching a few leaves. I am noticing the way the yellow butterflies ___LINEBRE... See more

Wisława Szymborska (pronuncia-se mais ou menos Vissuáva Chembórska) nasceu em 1923, no vilarejo de Bnin, hoje parte de Kórnik, uma pequena cidade próxima a Poznań

Wislawa Szymborska • Poemas (Portuguese Edition)

One by Mary Oliver The mosquito is so small it takes almost nothing to ruin it. Each leaf, the same. And the black ant, hurrying. So many lives, so many fortunes! Every morning, I walk softly and with forward glances down to the ponds and through the pinewoods. Mushrooms, even, have but a brief hour before the slug creeps to the feast, before the p

Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean-- the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down -- who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes. Now she lifts her pal