Tuesday morning. Blue-black light through silhouette branches. Rumble of furnace. Tick of clock.

Yesterday I worked and worried about the war. Editing, syllabus writing, then a meeting with a poet whose manuscript I've been evaluating; then dinner, then bed; and still, all the while, worrying about the war.

Fragrance rises from coffee, from a cluster of pink hyacinths. A clock ticks. A furnace rumbles.

Today: more editing, more syllabus writing, a mentor session with my high school poet. Chicken soup simmering on the stove. Bread swelling in the oven.

My sweet European homeland,

 

A butterfly lighting on your flowers stains its wings with blood

--from Czesław Miłosz's "Earth"