I found a note to myself with the name of this poem on a scrap of paper and
was entranced when I found it:
A Walk
My eyes already touch the sunny hill.
going far beyond the road I have begun,
So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp;
it has an inner light, even from a distance-
and changes us, even if we do not reach it,
into something else, which, hardly sensing it,
we already are; a gesture waves us on
answering our own wave…
but what we feel is the wind in our faces.
by Rainer Maria Rilke
Translated by Robert Bly
May your own walks be as magically fruitful as this one. Write on.