Tuesday, November 21, 2006


Some mornings I push the paper aside, click off National Public Radio's earnest voice, and simply drink my coffee looking out into the back yard. A 22-year-old Marine Lance Corporal was killed in Anbar province last Sunday. Sy Hirsch says intelligence concerning an Iranian nuclear weapons program is muddled at best.

It is autumn and rust-red dogwood leaves gather on my patio. I listen to a black crow's conversation through the kitchen window. I remember a poem written by the late Jane Kenyon. A good poem to read again two days before Thanksgiving.


I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work of love.

At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candelsticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this one.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.

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