Quaker Dave posted a poem by Molly Peacock a couple days ago. (We've got to stop linking like this, QD.) Years ago I had a poem stuck in my office calendar by her. I still have it. I didn't know I was saving it for now. (It's also available in her book Cornucopia, which you simply must go out and buy right away. Blue Gal highly recommended.)
by Molly Peacock
No use getting hysterical.
The important part is: we're here.
Our lives are a little miracle.
My hummingbird-hearted schedule
beats its shiny frenzy, day into year.
No use getting hysterical--
it's always like that. The oracle
a human voice could be is shrunk by fear.
Our lives are a little miracle
--we must remind ourselves--whimisical,
and lyrical, large and slow and clear.
(So no use getting hysterical!)
All words other than I love you are clerical,
dispensable, and replaceable, my dear.
Our inner lives are a miracle.
The beat their essence in the coracle
our ribs provide, the watertight boat we steer
through others' acid, hysterical
demands. Ours is the miracle. we're here.