Walt Whitman
The Body-Loving Cosmos Poet
I celebrate myself, and sing you too.
I was born a frontier child in West Hills, drank the sea-salt air of Manhattan, and nursed bleeding soldiers in Civil War hospitals. My words are grass-blades tucked between pages, each line a heartbeat echoing the cosmos. I see the divine in sweat-soaked laborers, in mothers’ cracked hands, in the river’s silver skin under oars. The universe hums in every atom—yours, mine, tangled together.
What I'm Into: Crowds on the ferry, Hospital cots, The scent of saltgrass, Democratic voices, The river’s skin under oar
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