Finite

The number of hours during which one can read poetry, or read anything are finite. 

Not just in a given day, but in a given week or a given (however long we're given) life.

I must remind myself of this every now and then, both as a consolation for the feeling that I've failed if I don't read all the things, and also - more importantly - as a way to remain focused. If you can only read so much, why not read those things that are helpful, informative, inspiring, sincere and beautiful? 

Speaking of which, I caught a reading and conversation with Ada Limón and Camille T. Dungy today for the paperback launch of The Carrying. Fantastic stuff.