Let Night Come


One of my very favorite poems is Jane Kenyon's "Let Evening Come." For me, it has been a day full of rain and teenage moodiness, which kind of hovers over the scene like, well, a raincloud--not that I'm complaining! It's just been that kind of day, and I'm ready to let evening come. Only it's already quite late here, so my end-of-day homage to Kenyon refers to the night. Please do read her poem; it's simple and lovely and just about perfect.


Let the rain patter against the dark windows
Let the lights on the hill fade one by one
Let the dog and cat rest by the flickering fire
Let night come

Ann's Room

Earlier today I attended the funeral of Ann Frame, my friend Pamela's mother. Ann was a spirited, intelligent woman whose many accomplishments included being a skilled sailor and marine biologist. During the service the minister read from John's gospel, the passage in which Jesus says, "In my Father's house are many rooms; if it were not so I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you."

The minister went on to describe what Ann's room in heaven might be like, based upon the stories of those who knew and loved her best.


A sunny window
facing the bay. The warm weight
of a sleeping cat.
Your favorite chair, deep and
inviting. Books at
hand and family close by.
It's all here.
Ann, come in;
your room is ready.

United Flight 162

I flew to Boston today to attend the funeral of my friend Pamela's mother, Ann Frame. I never got the chance to know Ann well--we met only briefly a few years ago. But Pamela is a friend who has at times dropped everything to swoop in with love and encouragement when I needed it most, so I would go nearly to the ends of the earth to try to do the same for her.

Air travel is a wonderful, amazing thing that also freaks me out if I think about it too hard.


"Watch your elbows and
knees, please, elbows and knees," chants
the flight attendant
in a sing-song cockney voice,
pushing the beverage
cart down the aisle. This strikes me
as funny. As I
hurtle through the air in a
metal shell, strapped to
a foam seat, going
six hundred miles per hour at
thirty thousand feet,
my elbows and knees
are the least of my worries.

Downhill

Since I've been on the subject of ninjas and superheros:


I stop to rest,
skis angled to the mountain,
and look up.
Behind an orange mesh barrier
a crouched skier bursts into view
and streaks by, skidding closely around gates,
then disappears over a ridge.

Am I,
of the burning legs and aching lungs,
even made out of the same stuff
as this bionic being?
I think not.

Poetry and Snow


“People should like poetry the way a child likes snow, and they would if poets wrote it.”
—a letter by Wallace Stevens

I read this quote last night in Mary Karr’s memoir, Lit. I haven’t finished the book yet, but so far, it is electrifying. I don’t know quite how else to describe it. Anyway, I love Karr’s perspective on poetry, and how writing and reading it has shaped her life.

Stevens’ quote is both humbling and inspiring. If poems are like snowflakes, I can’t help but think that mine are the smudgy, folded-paper cut-out variety, which all of us remember making as children. Even so, I love the idea that people can, and sometimes do, put words together in a way that elicits childlike wonder and delight from the reader—that is a beautiful possibility, and something that those of us who write aspire to.

Also a propos of snow: we’re driving to Mammoth Lakes today to take the kids snowboarding and skiing for the weekend. The boys just finished their midterm finals, checked the snow conditions, and are excited out of their minds to get there. A little haiku for the road:


Fresh and packed powder
All trails open, bluebird skies
Load the car and go!