For each of my Monson classes, I find a poem or a line or a sentence that seems, in some way, to capture an element of what I want to share with the students that day. On Wednesday I shared this small poem by Hanshan, and I've been thinking of it often since then--the miracle of hearing a voice from so long ago speak so confidently, so poignantly, of his own mind and imagination.

Sometimes I worry that I am too immersed in the small things of the self, the body, the earth, yet Hanshan's words reassure me that this really is a path for a poet in the world. I find I cannot scream my ideological fears. But what of the red of these late roses? I cannot stop gazing into their velvet hearts.

Last night, I went out to write, and my friends there spent a half hour or more planning exactly how they were going to help out at my book launch next Thursday--who would do an introduction, who would read, who would bring cups and plates and wine and cheese . . . Betsy said to me, almost sternly, "We are a community, of course." I felt giddy, I felt held, I felt like crying. What a gift to receive, so late in my life: a crowd of poets.

Today, I'll be back at my desk, finishing (I hope) what has turned into a very problematic editing project. I'll go grocery shopping, I'll go for a walk, I'll try to take a bit of time off, given that I have to teach all day tomorrow. But I got the house cleaned yesterday; I washed and dried and folded piles of laundry, I took my car to the garage, I carried firewood and cleaned the stove and put clean sheets on the bed, and "My mind is like the autumn moon / clear and bright in a pool of jade / nothing can compare / what more can I say."