I think about death a lot. I find it useful to put things - be it frazzled nerves, or disappointment and frustration - into perspective.

There’s a poem by the late John “Mike” Ford (1957-2006) that I’ve been thinking about a lot this last week, for some reason. It’s a beautiful little poem, written apparently in response to a blog post. (The original blog post itself was a wonderfully thoughtful piece. This is the kind of thing that makes me read blogs from all over the place.)  Here’s the poem:

Against Entropy

The worm drives helically through the wood
And does not know the dust left in the bore
Once made the table integral and good;
And suddenly the crystal hits the floor.
Electrons find their paths in subtle ways,
A massless eddy in a trail of smoke;
The names of lovers, light of other days—
Perhaps you will not miss them. That’s the joke.
The universe winds down. That’s how it’s made.
But memory is everything to lose;
Although some of the colors have to fade,
Do not believe you’ll get the chance to choose.
Regret, by definition, comes too late;
Say what you mean. Bear witness. Iterate.

—John M. Ford

These are words to live by: “Regret by definition comes to late; Say what you mean. Bear witness. Iterate.”

[Bonus: Read Mike Ford's beautiful 110 Stories written after September 11 here. Read other, wackier - but always fascinating - works of his here.]