The way the dark-to-light green concentric curves of artichokes, halved, look on the wooden cutting board. The way the round radishes, sliced thin, fan out on top of the slices of blood oranges in the white serving dish. The way baking powder biscuits can be a love letter if you cut them out with a heart-shaped cutter. The way the tightly-closed daffodils, $3/bunch at the grocery store, open in a few hours when set in a glass full of water. The way the hummingbirds dart in and out of the birds-of-paradise bush just outside the window. The way my little girl used to lean her head against my hands as I braided her hair. These and a thousand other little things, and only the little things, are what I’ll miss, if missing is possible in the beyond. Poem of the Week, by the magnificent Ada Limon.

The Last Thing, by Ada Limon

First there was the blue wing
of a scraggly loud jay tucked
into the shrubs. Then, the bluish
black moth drunkenly tripping
from blade to blade. Then,
the quiet that came roaring
in like the RJ Corman over
Broadway near the RV shop.
These are the last three things
that happened. Not in the universe,
but here, in the basin of my mind,
where I’m always making a list
for you, recording the day’s minor
urchins: silvery dust mote, pistachio
shell, the dog eating a sugar
snap pea. It’s going to rain soon,
close clouds bloated above us,
the air like a net about to release
all the caught fishes, a storm
siren in the distance. I know
you don’t always understand,
but let me point to the first
wet drops landing on the stones,
the noise like fingers drumming
the skin. I can’t help it. I will
never get over making everything
such a big deal.