Today I will continue editing a scholarly manuscript about Thoreau and begin checking the first proof of my own unscholarly reader's memoir, The Vagabond's Bookshelf. I will be thinking about the workshop I'll be teaching on Friday and remembering the grapevines I ought to start pruning. I'll be driving to pick up my son after track practice and listening to the Red Sox play their opening-day game in Cleveland. I'll be shopping for eggs and coffee, and I'll be cooking black beans and rice for dinner. It will be an ordinary day.
I wonder, I wonder, what will happen to me?
The first, the last, the ancients and the never-born . . . where are they now? Under a clean blue sky, cold fingers of sunlight strain across the bleached grass, across a fat parade of robins, across scattered shriveled leaves, letters from a lost autumn. There are too many trees to count.
My son is reading Faulkner, I am reading Fowles. The comma is a necessary erratum, but I cannot tell you why. Nor can I explain the flicker of snow still patching the sun-spattered moss.
A few weeks ago my friend Angela said, "I love living here because it is so hard to live here."
No, and yes, and always. And always: why?