The other day, I watched a video
talking about how special wood is—
how nowhere else in the universe
does such a thing exist;
how unlikely it is for these conditions
to grow trees and create this exact
substance on our planet to happen—
and I can’t get it out of my head.

I think about it sitting in
The Mercantile Library
as sun shines in through
these big arched windows
onto a crowd of folks
listening to my friend read
his beautiful book;
as sun touches these wood floors,
these wood tables,
and all these books printed on paper,
also made from wood, rare and amazing
and marked with words representing
thoughts of so many people who moved
through this world before me—
another extraordinary miracle.

I often recite the phrase
what a time to be alive
referencing the awful things
we’re all witnessing
in this complicated reality,
but what if I started thinking
about wood and paper
and words and all this beauty
shoved into places
between the horrors instead?

Indeed, what a time to be alive.