October 13, 2020

with apologies to the salamander
or A poem in search of its last line

And I thought I was doing so well, what with all that reverie at the sunrise palettes,
the swoony photographs of homemade loaves of herbed bread, the tenderness of my gaze
on a screen at which my family had gathered in small squares. I had been especially
awed by the garden and its daily wonder of growing things, nearly cooing when I
picked the peas. The ritual walks to the cove at low tide had taken on the texture 
of devotion. From certain angles, the day was a study of enchantment, an unfolding 
catalogue of granular beauty. But my movements - new to this dance - were scattershot,
my footfalls indelicate in their enthusiasm. I was only trying to clear a patch of old roots. 
I was only trying to make a clearing.