The arrival of fall has me thinking about our closets again. The urge to dismantle the stacks of crated material, and to throw most of it away, has returned. Some of it, though, I have to keep: the old music books and sheet music from my piano-lesson days, for instance, and drawings our kids made. But the refuse of my writing life is another matter — the old redundant notebooks in tragic script, the reams of rejection letters, the battered self-addressed envelopes with return postage from the days before electronic submissions, and the hollow carcasses of the stories and poems themselves — the almosts and the not-quites, which, truth be told, deserved their quiet fate. I love them, I do not regret them, for without them, I would not have written what came after them. And that, in a nutshell, is the story of my life. Each action was, and is, necessary. And while the actions are recorded upon my face, it is to the present that I must give my full attention.
Today I Am a Rock
Today I am a rock on a hillside.
Did you know I can make it rain?
No cloud can refuse me.
How they cry to see
me anchored so
as if I were
as if an eon hence
I will not be,
Poems, Slightly Used, March 16, 2011