One loves a place and
he becomes its care-taker. It is duty. It is the responsibility of love. Like a mother and her child.
It is a grey, wet morning. The light has been used already - used on a dim street corner in a small town along the Maine coast, a pole light on a farm in upstate New York, the fire of a steel mill in Indiana, light seen through water like a fish's eye sees it. It's a used kind of light but it's enough to get us rolling. Middle westerners don't have to have the best of everything.
It looked raw outside, but is not. It is a mild greyness. This is a gift - it could be cold as I had imagined.
The forsythia along the house is starting to bloom. The buds swell on every naked tree.
It spits rain all the way north. At Five Corners, some of the water stands in fields, some rushes. Rain speckles the trout of imagination.
I read these every morning but don't usually comment. This one, though -- I had to nip over and say, yeah. Yeah. "A used kind of light but enough to get us rolling."
Posted by: Rachel | April 20, 2007 at 08:18 AM
Thanks, Rachel! I appreciate hearing that.
Posted by: Tom Montag | April 20, 2007 at 03:27 PM