Oh, to have half the talent and humanity that Ada Limón has. I listened to the audiobook of this day's read, and her voice is as lovely as her poems. Except "lovely" is a horrible word to describe the complexity and compassion and humor and hurt in her work. Sure, I'm a poet. But at the moment, words fail me. I will have to go elsewhere, alone, staring into space for some time, and write a poem about what her poetry means to me. I can't help but gush and fan-girl about it. Plus, she's from just (more or less) up the road. So I not only admire her, I feel this weird proprietary pride about it, too. [Ada Limón, I almost wish you weren't so doggone famous and didn't have such a nationally recognized role so that we could go get coffee together in Petaluma and get to know each other.] Also, boy, does her work inspire me to dedicate more time and attention to my own craft. I want to see the world, look at it, report back from my particular brain, and do so as beautifully as she does. That's all. No big ask, right?
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