This reminded Ruby of making art with ordinary materials: mundane moments become poetry with a skilled eye and hand.  

Our life is ordinary, I read in a crumpled paper abandoned on a bench. Our life is ordinary, the philosophers told me.

Ordinary life, ordinary days and cares, a concert, a conversation, strolls on the town’s outskirts, good news, bad –

but objects and thoughts were unfinished somehow, rough drafts.

Houses and trees desired something more and in summer, green meadows covered the volcanic planet like an overcoat tossed upon the ocean.

Black cinemas crave light. Forests breathe feverishly, clouds sing softly, a golden oriole prays for rain. Ordinary life desires.

Adam Zagajewski, translated from the Polish by Clare Cavanagh The New Yorker, November 26, 2007 page 100