April 12, 2020

Easter. Tremendous rain on the gray garden. Listening to Rachmaninoff. Read Herbert’s “Easter,” realizing that in retirement I can have a different relationship with poetry, immediate and personal, not always having find context or significance or strip the layered meanings bare. A return to mystery.

When I first opened the front door this morning, for a brief second I imagined that somebody had left me an Easter basket. Of course not, but my mind’s first impulse was belief.