Monday, April 29, 2019

The heater just stopped.  The sky outside the window is becoming visible. I am up but don’t want to get moving quite yet. Scratching birds on the skylight.  The bright screen on my lap. Remembering Mary Oliver’s poem, what do I want to do with my one precious life.  Feels like I am forgetting something.

I have been slowly reading A LONG HIGH WHISTLE, Selected columns on poetry, by David Biespiel.  One chapter at a time. What is it about poetry that is so hard to understand?