Equinoctal

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How quiet I've been.

Just working on the project -- which has a new working title, Thank You for Being (etc).
The mind wants to be quiet, as well, at least around the edges of writing -- which, frankly, is... most of the time. As Michael Gottlieb notes in his essential little book, What We Do: Essays for Poets (quoting Max Beerbohm): "the only problem with being a poet is figuring out what to do with the other twenty-three hours of the day." In these "other" hours, it is better for the mind to be absorbed in the rest of whatever is going on:  emptying dishwasher, checking chickens, hugging partner, gratifying cats. Vacuuming (a terrifying word, if you really think about it). Staring out second-floor window onto the bright grass, leaves of the dogwood below starting to turn, angle of the light already sharpened in that autumnal way that brings such delight (even if it it signals -- especially on this date -- a turn toward the dark. For a while... ).

But the mind, of course, often rejects quiet. 

Some of the things (word-things, image-things, idea-things) that arise include

Supreme Court.
Repent!
Return.
Kinderhook
Mom
How not to hate
I hate....
Nostalgia without being sappy
"Continuing Against Closure"
How she used to say "The frost is on the pumpkin!"
How I got here.
Novia Scotia, my new Scotland?
"We're all in this together"
what am i missing?

What 
am
i

missing always missing


is it OK if my fingers smell of bleach

shadows on the lawn: prayer flags in the wind

How she used to
be my mother

how to fold a round tablecloth

Why not in Maine?

Wisconsin sounds like woods


meet me
meet me please

some bird, crying   "court
court
court"

--probably a chicken





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