It will be a housework kind of day, a going-to-the-dump kind of day. Also, I am girding my loins and shipping out my prose manuscript to a second publisher. I still have not heard back from the first, but six months later I'm beginning to wonder if I ever will. The gloom of indecision is weighing heavily; and let's call it double gloom, really, because my poetry manuscript languishes in a parallel limbo.
But enough of this repining. Today I will scrub the bathtub, and water my beautiful rosemary plant, and laugh at the woodpecker who has taken to banging his head on the telephone pole, and reread Lampedusa's glorious brief memoir of his childhood in Sicily, and drink lemon-ginger tea, and wish I were in Sicily wandering around the mysterious dusty rooms of an eighteenth-century palace, and begin planning the menu for Tom's Monday-evening birthday feast.
I'll leave you with this stanza from Sylvia Plath's "Night Dances"--a small stanza, and very simple, yet now that I've read it, I don't feel like I'll ever need to read anything else . . . or at least not for an hour or two:
The cometsHave such a space to cross,