Close

A Poet’s Work

On Monday around noon, the reality settled over me that I wouldn’t be favored by the weather dice. The rain that had arrived in the night and stayed for the morning would be falling hard on me in a few minutes as I walked the quarter mile or so on an errand not easily avoided. So I put on a shirt and another shirt and my winter coat and gave myself to the not-quite-downpour. And the wind.

The errand done, I walked briskly back to my little place and made a fresh pot of coffee and sat down to work, scratching out a decent draft of a piece about the very adventure I’d just finished.

Poetry’s really just right for me. I can try to contribute some sense of what matters in the world without committing my year to any particular characters or plots or places.