I have what appears, to the naked eye, to be an infinite pile of drafts yet to respond to. I did some of that in a room full of rainy day light.
In class we talked about how you get from an idea to a poem. There are a lot of ways. Sometimes, actually, you go from the poem to the idea, for instance.
The students had poems to workshop. I prescribed the read-aloud protocol.
After class, after my tutorial hours in the Student Writing Center, I loaded up a box of the new chapbook into my car and went off to prepare for the launch and reading. This involved some expensive-ish groceries.
While I was out and about, I talked with my son, who told me about a friend from his high school circle who had just died. I remembered him--a hard upbringing, a really talented musician. That young, it's hard to believe.
The reading was splendid. The author, Hana, read beautifully and movingly.
We all felt so proud of her, and of the students who collectively published her book.
People talked and lingered as she signed books.
Life is full of breathtaking sadnesses pressed up against the celebrations and the moments when you're just buying grapes or preparing dinner, moments that seem ignorant of each other, almost. Tonight was a great night and a mourning night. Ordinary rain and blossom and sunlight breaking through.