September 6, 2016

The hen-and-chicks on the porch has been blooming in its pot on the porch for most of the summer. I sat in the living room as an emerald hummingbird descended and drank from the coral pink flower, all surrounded by the gold haze of late afternoon. It was unspeakably beautiful. The Artificer is all the time conjuring such moments, hoping we will forget the general botch of things, and we do. Quiet Labor Day, some gardening, some sending out of manuscripts, binge-watching of The West Wing. Something–maybe it was the hummingbird on the flower, maybe something on the TV-- stabbed me with the realization of how trivial I am most of the time, agonizing over my little life when children disappear and cities go up in flames. I don’t know what to do about it. It’s all the theater I have to play in, yes, the one I’m clearly meant to play in, but one would like, from time to time, a little perspective.

I wanted to contribute to a magazine called Halcyon, which asks for serene and restful poems, that bring calm and a sense of repose. After a few minutes’ search I realized I had nothing like that at all.