Tuesday, August 26, 2008

AUGUST 27, 2002

I want this morning to observe the sun on the leaves of the black walnuts, how the light makes the green of the leaves so dark. I have no time to watch that, no time to make notes of it. Here I sit scribbling quickly, overworked, underpaid, but loved. What can I say. Some days you run on fumes.

As I head east on Washington Street the sun is a soreness in my eyes. There is a lazy wind from the east. The canning company sprays its waste water on the field to the east side of Highway E north of Fairwater. There is no stink to the spray, no stink to the day.

The famous woman on the radio says "I am a poet and an artist, it is my duty to speak of the wonderful and not so wonderful."

I am a poet. My duty is to sing the wonder of each morning, each day, each life. This is morning praise, lauds. "Oh, praise the day," I must sing. It's that kind of world. It's that kind of responsibility I've been given.

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