Sunday Blue Notes

Sadly, this is Sunday evening, and I'm enjoying the last luxurious hours of a very calmThanksgiving break. Who knew this was even possible? Even the weather has been choosing lighter jackets for us all. This autumn has been so unusual. I think we've watched every single leaf fall. Nothing was in a rush . . .only now evening comes earlier and earlier. So very dark outside and it's only 5:46 p.m. I've started dinner, which is another version of leftovers. Slowly, our turkey disappears. Soon, turkey pot pie, then soup, and after that we'll dream of spaghetti!


In Friday's morning paper I read that Ruth Stone has passed. What a remarkable poet and spirit. She was a such a vibrant light at SUNY Binghamton. So kind and witty and certain . . . She'd say "Dearie" that was two parts endearment and one part pulling your chin up to pay close attention. Now, like her poems, she's suddenly everywhere and I will think about her often.

I think to honor her, I will read a Ruth Stone poem every day this week.

Curtains
by Ruth Stone
Putting up new curtains, other windows intrude. As though it is that first winter in Cambridge when you and I had just moved in. Now cold borscht alone in a bare kitchen. What does it mean if I say this years later? Listen, last night I am on a crying jag with my landlord, Mr. Tempesta. I sneaked in two cats. He screams, "No pets! No pets!" I become my Aunt Virginia, proud but weak in the head. I remember Anna Magnani. I throw a few books. I shout. He wipes his eyes and opens his hands. OK OK keep the dirty animals but no nails in the walls. We cry together. I am so nervous, he says. I want to dig you up and say, look, it's like the time, remember, when I ran into our living room naked to get rid of that fire inspector. See what you miss by being dead?

from Poets.org