“The path is not the work. I hope your tracks have grown over; I hope birds ate the crumbs; I hope you will toss it all and not look back….” ~ Annie Dillard

So much work: sribbling and starting over, and scribbling again. Scrubbing and wiping, cleaning, scraping. The moon rises above the tree line. At dawn it disappears, coin plinked back into its porcelain bank. What will it all weigh, at the end of this life? I have a friend who has signed up her daughter for classes since she was three: ballet, tap,
jazz, piano, flute, violin, guitar. Another is fluent in five languages, and is hard at work learning a sixth. What can I be proud of today? I scramble two eggs before 8 am, and through the kitchen windows hear the scree of a bird. Before noon, I read the word “frisson” in a poem and am slightly, inexplicably cheered. Do you hear the train whistle, the neighbors slamming car doors in their driveways? There’s a bill for three years’ worth of water that came through the pipes. I daub scent on my wrists and inhale a border of verbena, flowering in the sun. Before bed, I will hold the detachable chrome rainfall showerhead in my hand and wash my hair in the tub, admire the wealth of each clear droplet swirling away in the drain.


In response to Complaint and small stone (98) (99) (100).

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