I know that there are people who move, satisfied, through their mornings without reading Mary Oliver poems, who appreciate the muddy puddles of spring without the help of e.e. cummings, who know of God without knowing of Rumi. I am baffled by this way of being. I hike through the desert of my days, poetry strapped to my back like a hydration pack. When I start to faint or panic, I turn to take long draughts from the rubber tube, continue the long trek.