Time and time again I come back to the probing poetry of Mary Oliver for inspiration in my writing. Her book Dream Work (1986) will not stay open to the page I want, so I prop it open with Virginia Woolf's thought-provoking A Room of One's Own. The poem I choose to read over and over is Dreams. Here are the first few lines.
"All night/ the dark buds of dreams/ open/ richly./ In the center/ of every petal/ is a letter,/ and you imagine/ if you could only remember/ and string them all together/ they would spell the answer."
I feel much the better for having read Oliver. I sigh then go to my own page.