July 9, 2015

Wednesday was one of those days of perfect cheerfulness. I slept and woke and could hardly tell the difference between the two. I anticipated H and P’s visit with joy, and it was joy when they came and we spent the morning together. When we parted–Jesus, twenty years ago-- H was sinking fast and dragging me down. I looked forward to nothing good for him. I couldn’t help him anymore. He seemed doomed by his own disposition. But I was wrong, or his vessel righted, and time finds him triumphant, with two strong sons and a joyful countenance, the former dark twists in his nature undetectable. I’m glad he gave me a second chance.
   
The Spirit of Poetry descended on me, and I have been writing poetry at a rate and a level I have not for many months. Sat in Edna’s and wrote. Sat at my green table and wrote. Sat this morning at the picnic table outside the Y under the pale half moon and wrote. I ask at the end of every bout of composition, “how much better do I have to be than anyone else for how long before I have equal reward?” and there is no answer. Sometimes it is possible to smile ruefully and go on.
   
Harvested my first eggplant of the summer. It is perfect. The first hibiscus are in mammoth burgundy bloom.
   
Did a little summer gardening before the heat of the day, planting mollis and spiderwort.