Best definition of the universe I've heard yet

My daughter's first grade class is assembling a book on geography. Each child was assigned a geographical concept to look up in the dictionary. Then they write the word on their page with the definition and draw a picture of it. A few kids were assigned two pages, so all the concepts would be covered. Leah got "prairie," and then she got "universe."

Universe?

She diligently looked it up in our illustrated children's dictionary, (there was no illustration on this one, by the way) and copied down the definition in her best handwriting.

The whole of everything that exists, including the earth, moon, sun, all the planets, and all the stars.

I talked a little about how no one knows how big the universe is, and many people think it's expanding. All that we can see with even the most powerful telescopes is still just the tiniest fraction of the universe. As she began to draw, she stopped and pondered for a while. Then she said this.

Mom, I think the universe is God's mind. The universe keeps getting bigger because God's mind keeps getting bigger. I think when someone dies, she's still in the universe, because she's still in God's mind.

Blew. Me. Away.

there is poetry in Cleveland

Here is my proof.

April 2nd, Willoughby Municipal Park, Cleveland, on Lake Erie.

(I photoshopped out a picnic table and two trash cans. Forgive me.)

language in translation

I've been thinking a lot about the German language, flipping through traveler's phrase books and the hefty, sober Oxford-Duden Dictionary (concise version of). I love German. It's a realist's language. Not that I'm a realist, but I admire those who are.

English in translation

I told them English
is my mother tongue,
but every day, every word
I translate
from the unformed,
the fleeting, the impassioned,
the true.
Even that
I translate
from the primoridal dark
and the dappled green shadows
of my forebears' memories.

Example of a teacher/poet who gets it

Enjoy.


Teaching Poetry to 3rd Graders

by Gary Short
from his collection "10 Moons and 13 Horses"

At recess a boy ran to me
with a pink rubber ball and asked
if I would kick it to him. He handed me the ball,
then turned and ran
and ran and ran, not turning back
until he was far out in the field.
I wasn't sure I could kick the ball
that far. But I tried,
launching a perfect and lucky kick.
The ball sailed in a beautiful arc
about eight stories high,
landed within a few feet of the 3rd grader
and took a big bounce off the hard playground dirt.
Pleased, I turned to enter the school building.
And then (I don't know where they came from
so quickly) I heard a rumbling behind me
full tilt. They were carrying pink balls and yellow balls
of different sizes, black and white checkered
soccer balls. They wanted me to kick for them.
And now this is a ritual—this is how we spend recess.
They stand in line, hand me the ball and run.
The balls rise like planets
and the 3rd graders
circle dizzily beneath the falling sky,
their arms outstretched.