And what a privilege and a blessing it is to a poor Irish girl, who has only lived in a hovel, with scarcely an article of furniture, save the pot "to boil the pratties," to be instructed in housework!

--Sarah Josepha Hale (1788-1879), editor of Godey's Ladies Book, chief campaigner to make Thanksgiving a national holiday, opponent of women's suffrage, and author of "Mary Had a Little Lamb" as well as a collection of poems titled The Genius of Oblivion. [I am not making this up.]

It goes without saying that if the tree was hollow in whole or in part, and contained old nests of bird or mammal or insect, or hoards of nuts or such structures as wasps or bees build for their survival, the contents will have to be repaired where necessary, and reassembled, insofar as possible, in their original order, including the shells of nuts already opened.

--W. S. Merwin (born 1927), from Unchopping a Tree, a series of prose poems speculating about how one might reassemble a felled tree. I was lucky enough to acquire a galley of this beautiful book, which is forthcoming from Trinity University Press. I may need to write a review; it is truly lovely.

***

As is typical of freelance life, nothing has suddenly metamorphosed into everything. Today I am editing a book about the intersection of art and politics during the cold war. Tomorrow I have to judge the state Poetry Out Loud finals. Next week I head out for a two-day visiting poet job. Somehow I need to fit in time to copyedit two poetry collections. My band has to learn a lot of Irish songs for a Saint Patrick's Day gig. My son's one-act festival opens this weekend. Ruckus celebrates his first birthday on the Ides of March. I am reading a history of housework and mulling over period-specific advertisements and the contents of women's advice columns. Journals are rejecting my poems, but in a friendly manner. I have the strange urge to do a lot of crossword puzzles, but there are none in my house.

***

Though my lov'd country should reward my toil,
And on my lay, approving, deign to smile,
And Taste bestow the meed the muses prize,
And Fancy all her day-dreams realize;
Still, still your patronage shall be my boast--
You kindly gave it, when 'twas needed most.

--From "Dedicatory Poem, Inscribed to the Friends and Patrons of the THE AUTHOR," in The Genius of Oblivion, by Sarah Josepha Hale. [See, I told you I wasn't making this up.]

Hypocrite reader my
variant my almost
family we are so
few now it seems as though
we knew each other as
the words between us keep
assuming that we do
I hope I make sense to
you in the shimmer of
our days

--From "Cover Note," in Travels, by W. S. Merwin. [I copied out the Hale extract, and then I opened this Merwin collection, and there before me lay "Cover Song," his version of "Dedicatory Poem," which I had never read before. The Fates are lively this morning.]