442: page turning again

A week has drifted by, a full, plump week, with poetry get-togethers, a calming inside of me, a return of a husband who spent seven days in California, a cold that has ripped through my students, my friends, my Ryan, a putting away of knitting needles and return to the page.

As I age, my attention swings more and more pendulously: for months, all I can think of is the workings of my body, the frustrations therein, and then, I wake on a Saturday morning, not even stepping foot into the Loft offices, and poetry has filled me again, up to the brim, and all I want is to settle into a comfortable chair, or, perhaps, on the sunniest of days, on a blanket in the yard, and read until the world slips away, until I am fully ensconced in that new and fresh place.

I just started The Echo Maker by Richard Powell, who is visiting our campus in two weeks (and I will be photographing the event). I'm only a slim trail of pages in, but the language is lush, on the tails of the Miep Gies memoir (which was so sweet, so tender, which was written so plainly, and made me cry on more than one occasion).