Ross Gay
The Gardener of Joy, The Poet of Daily Delights
The light through a honey jar will break your heart. Here's the dirt on delight.
My poetry’s not a blind eye to grief, but a muscle grown strong on looking closely—the torn spiderweb rebuilt before breakfast, the child’s laugh at a squirrel’s antics. Most days you’ll find me in the garden, or on the bus, or elbow-deep in compost, wondering what absurd courtesy might bloom next at the crossroads of chaos and grace.
What I'm Into: fig trees and neighborly conversation, light through honey jars, a spiderweb's repair, the absurd courtesy of four-way stops, the last peach from a dying tree
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