Rain is pouring down and down, grass is greening, buds are swelling before my eyes. Radishes are up, peas are up, arugula is up. The garlic greens are six inches high. The plants seem to tremble with eagerness under the steady, soaking rain.

Yesterday Tom spent the morning working on his photographs; later in the day he went into the forest and cut cedar poles for a new clothesline. I read poetry collections, worked on an essay, then turned over garden soil and dragged brush and pruned raspberry canes. Paul was away at a track meet, so just the two of us were home for dinner. I roasted potatoes, sauteed dandelion greens in bacon, made a tomato salad. Tom washed the dishes. We drank coffee and tea. We talked a lot, about nothing in particular. It was a good day.

Today could be another one. I will read more poems; I will finish reading a novel; I will do housework and cook spicy red beans with cornmeal dumplings. Paul and I will plan our June foray to New York City.



Saturday Night in Connellsville (1994)

Dawn Potter

Because, across a crowded table,

the man you have loved for twenty-five years

catches your eye and breaks into a smile

so bright it could light up the Yukon;

because, as you smile back through the candle flame,

your lanky fifteen-year-old leans all his wiry,

vibrating weight against your shoulder,

and your chair shudders and your neighbors laugh;

because when you put your arms around your boy

and press your cheek into his bristly hair,

he reaches for your hand and holds it against his own cheek

and doesn’t let you go;

because the man on the tiny stage dances

over the guitar strings as if his fat hands

are as fragile as the snowflakes

that sift slowly from the unseen sky;

because the crowd breathes alongside you

in easy patience, in careful, quiet joy;

because even time has paused

to shift its flanks and listen,

you say to yourself:

I will remember this.

I will remember this forever.

[from Chestnut Ridge, a verse-history-in-progress of southwestern Pennsylvania]