Still Still The cats sleep. The furnace belches dust and heat. A dying man tries to breathe. Just a machine, your chest rising and falling. Bleached leaves flap like wings. The creek, still still, still solid. The hole in the oak, abandoned. Frogs dream of life beneath the ice. The hole longs to be filled. The concrete angel on the patio sulks. Last night I dreamed the farmer was reaping snow, that his harvester was eating me alive. Husked. Hulled. This morning light fails to be described. A skein of geese unravels. Boring, predictable. I glean the field for signs. A crow ruins the silence. I breathe, ignore it. –Laurel Dodge, La Chambre d’Ecoute

There is something stark, austere, beautiful, and reminiscent of Zen in this poem. I discovered Laurel’s blog last year. I read it often. (I also visit because I have a huge crush on her cat, Bob, who is featured frequently.) What I find compelling about Laurel is her willingness to dwell on the edge; she converses with death, loss, and grief in a way so intimate it makes me uncomfortable. That is why I visit her — because she explores places I don’t feel brave enough to pursue. Also because Bob is so gorgeous, and she captures his catness in all its variety.