A Million Things in Plain Sight

13 August 2018:

So it’s Sunday and we smell the smoke of other places, the whole town and all the mountains wearing a strange, yellow haze of smoke and sun.

I stare at my chapbook manuscript before I send it off for a friend to have a look.

I’m not sure what’s happening with it—as poems seems to be all over the place(s). And I can’t quite feel good about my choices. Not yet at least.

What should stay? What belongs? What needs to be abandoned?

(Maybe a friend will help.)

I stare, too, at all the books I’ve gathered in the past couple months, ones I still need to read, the ones stacked on the windowsill in the sun: Edward Abbey and his desert, Richard Grant and the Mississippi Delta, Marge Piercy’s Stone, Paper, Knife.

With such a stack, a million things wait in plain sight for me to learn.

Instead, I begin my Christmas worry early. I sit here and stew about a plane ticket, gifts, who I won’t see around this year. But who wants that layer stacked on a year so swiftly passing?

Today,

I want to try to remember August, outside the window now, warming up to nearly ninety.

So oddly colored. So full of other places.

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