August 23, 2026
Sixty years ago tonight I sat at my desk in my little green room in Akron and wrote my first poem. I was so happy. The walls and roof opened around me, and nothing encased me but the immensity of the world. I was so sad, because the occasion of the poem was sad, but I was also so happy. Wrote out the poem this morning to be sure that I remembered it.
Tackled the great billows of morning glory that took over most of the gardens. In terms of the sheer volume of plant material uprooted, this was the among the most productive days ever in the garden. I was a botano-archaeologist, uncovering lost cultures buried under pretty but consuming vines.
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