Jane and I speak this morning. We feel the book is done, for the moment. It went to an editor today and we'll see what she says, and yet, this moment feels so whole and complete. I lit a candle and am savoring and I will print it out and read it perhaps in a special place to see how it is as a whole. The work has been in pieces. I suppose our work is in pieces, and at the end, we see the whole.
As I said, April is Poetry Month, so I receive a poem a day, and then, found myself motivated to check out Ted Kooser's columns from American Life in Poetry. I choose this one today.
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006
My maternal grandparents got their drinking water from a well in the yard, and my disabled uncle carried it sloshing to the house, one bucket of hard red water early every morning. I couldn't resist sharing this lovely little poem by Minnesota poet, Sharon Chmielarz.
All those years—almost a hundred—
the farm had hard water.
Hard orange. Buckets lined in orange.
Sink and tub and toilet, too,
once they got running water.
And now, in less than a lifetime,
just by changing the well's location,
in the same yard, mind you,
the water's soft, clear, delicious to drink.
All those years to shake your head over.
Look how sweet life has become;
you can see it in the couple who live here,
their calmness as they sit at their table,
the beauty as they offer you new water to drink.