<html><head><meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"></head><body style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;" class=""><div dir="auto" style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;" class=""><div class="">Sorrow Is Not My Name</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class=""><i class="">—after Gwendolyn Brooks</i></div><div class=""><i class=""><br class=""></i></div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">No matter the pull toward brink. No</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">matter the florid, deep sleep awaits.</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">There is a time for everything. Look,</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">just this morning a vulture</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">nodded his red, grizzled head at me,</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">and I looked at him, admiring</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">the sickle of his beak.</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">Then the wind kicked up, and,</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">after arranging that good suit of feathers</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">he up and took off.</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">Just like that. And to boot,</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">there are, on this planet alone, something like two</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">million naturally occurring sweet things,</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">some with names so generous as to kick</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">the steel from my knees: agave, persimmon,</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">stick ball, the purple okra I bought for two bucks</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">at the market. Think of that. The long night,</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">the skeleton in the mirror, the man behind me</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">on the bus taking notes, yeah, yeah.</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">But look; my niece is running through a field</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">calling my name. My neighbor sings like an angel</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">and at the end of my block is a basketball court.</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">I remember. My color's green. I'm spring.</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class=""><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>- Ross Gay</div><div class=""><br class=""></div></div></body></html>