Yesterday was a good day. I read a breathtaking essay by poet Garth Greenwell, who is generously allowing me to include it in my anthology. I got a surprise telephone call from a stranger who just wanted to let me know how much he liked my piece in the current Sewanee Review. I taught a Gillian Welch song to the boys in the band. Tom took down the storm windows. I wore a summer dress and hung towels on the line. A crocus bloomed, and I finished copyediting chapter 10.

Today I might dig in the dirt. I might try finishing my Hindenburg poem. I might consider the parameters of an essay about cooking. Or I might sit on the back stoop and close my eyes and listen to birds. There are so many birds in this clearing--such a motley, vivid wave of pioneers taming this little scrap of springtime Earth.

Home

Dawn Potter

So wild it was when we first settled here.

Spruce roots invaded the cellar like thieves.

Skunks bred on the doorstep, cluster flies jeered.

Ice-melt dripped shingles and screws from the eaves.

We slept by the stove, we ate meals with our hands.

At dusk we heard gunshots, and wind and guitars.

We imagined a house with a faucet that ran

From a well that held water. We canvassed the stars.

If love is an island, what map was our hovel?

Dogs howled on the mainland, our cliff washed away.

We hunted for clues with a broken-backed shovel.

We drank all the wine, night dwindled to grey.

When we left, a flat sunrise was threatening snow,

But the frost heaves were deep. We had to drive slow.

[forthcoming in Same Old Story (CavanKerry Press, 2014)]