An endless rain has been falling, or so the high-mountain poets tell us, from their arks above this watery world. But what of the latest wet spell that began yesterday as nothing more than a shadow of a cloud on the horizon? Should I take less care gathering up the old photographs, calling my mom, striving against the heartburn of disappointment for forgiveness; should I not do the dishes, or answer my emails, or tidy my desk? One rain is so like another we say “beginningless.” But here: a little boat shoved out on the waves, almost no wake, nothing to mark its coming or going except that we saw it, all of us, and it was marvelous.
I’m working on finding good lighting for the poems. Harder than you’d expect. I’d been trying to find a way to honor Wisława Szymborska when Beth at the cassandra pages did more than I could have hoped for from myself.