2 April 2019:
I want a page to sum up this season. I want a page to collect a bit of this time, this year. I want a page to hold something of my world today.
Instead, I read Lucie Brock-Broido and Deborah Tall and drink coffee before work while first light falls over my apartment into the open parking lot.
Deborah Tall, in her book, A Family of Strangers, reminds me that each generation depends on the one before it.
Here I am, reading dead women every day in the desk-lamp hours before work, clearing space in my head, in my heart.
Twenty-six degrees, mostly sunny. The starlings. The spruce.
I can never say the world outside my window is ever the same. And to get bored with the world, to let the ever-rare go unseen, well, that’s an inward fault I’ve always tried to avoid, to recognize, to own up to when I forget to see the spring snow on the cedars in the sun.