Tuesday, April 21, 2015
I am here. It is April and I am here. Here is watching the sunlight travel across the oak floor. Here is looking out the study window and seeing young pink dogwood blossoms float in the breeze and the last of the candy stripe tulips lose one petal at a time. Here is like being at home being a guest. All is familiar but not mine; the two wicker chairs I love - not mine; the turquoise desk with five drawers - not mine; the gate-leg table and cream glass lamp - not mine. Rather than a denial of possessions I am treasuring those I brought with me to Dairy Hollow: the ream of white paper; the accumulated early poems I want to make new; the plastic container showing the fine-tipped markers never used; the old spiral sketchbooks next to one untouched sketchbook; the new book of J.Ruth Gendler's poetry; the retirement journal of Carl H. Klaus. These are my home things, my possessions, and I will fill the empty paper with words; the spiral sketchbook with images; the time with reading and musing. This is my get away to get into. I am in the Hollow and I am beginning to open on the swaying branch of a new spring.