An odd source of music.
(at the First Iron Works of America, Saugus, MA)
Now, even the river is revised, the bones of it at whiter, cleaner density.
I never knew my paternal grandfather or maternal grandmother, but loved every minute with my paternal grandmother, the bookbinder for 60 years, and my maternal grandfather, the storyteller of a lifetime.
I spoke to myself in the rain barrel.
Salt comes in on the morning air like the wounded walking home, a worked ripeness, a pain hanging.
(“Please come to read for us from your new book.”)
For me, spring is that wait for the true form of the maple tree in the backyard, the double-trunked beauty wherein its broad V I laid a set of tire chains years ago.
Rommel’s Last Foe
“My fort, it’s over here. It’s secret and mine. I’ll show it to you. Only once, though. Big peoplea ren’t supposed to be here.”
How personalities mark a home.
It is gospel with us that you must do things for those you love.
There, in his barn, I was a listener as well as a watcher.
Tools move to him, are drawn by his hands.
On getting too big for your britches.