we went to the beach today. 2 saturdays in a row. our little cove. it isn't sand there, it's tiny tiny rocks, polished down and smooth. i brought home another big batch of bright white rocks and will have to track down a jar to tumble them in to. i also found a heart stone, bright white like the rest and just as precious. i'll take a picture of it tomorrow and post it here. it made my heart happy to find a heart on the shore. and i dug out my new book- frieda hughes' 'Wooroloo'. i got it during my day of despondency at the used bookstore. a lucky find and for a short moment my hand halted when i saw it... i wasn't sure if i wanted to know her words. i've got everything her mother ever wrote and a few of her father's books too and, for as disrespectful and harsh as this sounds, i didn't want her writing to be bad... i was scared to find out. but i picked it up and opened it right in the middle. that's the best way to browse for a book of poems. leap right in. and the poem i opened it to was exactly the poem i needed. isn't that always the way. a true fortune. and it was good. and so today, nestled down on the tiny tiny stones with strange little fleas making a new nest between my toes, i started at the beginning, the first blank page that spills over to the dedication: to her father who she called Daddy and my heart snapped in half. good thing i'd found a new one, bright white and made out of stone. and i read and read and read and i only stopped because the tide was coming in and my dog and man were tired and it was time to make the drive back. by the time we walked in the front door, i feel the hefty fatigue a day out in the sun brings. i lied down on the soft white comforter in front of the fan and fell right off to sleep. now, i'm drinking coffee- a decision i'll regret in a few hours but, right now, is wonderful. my sweetie, now sleeping in the exact same spot i slept in... the dog pooled on the floor, exhausted... a documentary about the kennedys buzzing on the television. i'll read another poem or two tonight before i curl up next to my sweetheart. maybe i'll even work on a few of my own that i've been ignoring. we had a good day. i had a good day. poems belong at the beach. that's where they should be read. there and in a big comfy chair under a huge quilt. those are the two places poetry works its hardest and brightest. at least for me.
my heart goes out to her. frieda. i will never, i hope, know the road she has known. i will never know the sharp corners she's fallen against. it isn't pity, it's respect. she is all poise and resilience. a woman that paints and writes children's books and good poems. she is the last of her tribe now. she is alone. my prayer is that she doesn't feel that way.
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