It’s reached the point where my concern for the republic has turned into resentment that I have to be concerned for the republic. I want to be concerned for what matters in my world: wife, daughter, friends, family, dog, cat, the annuals I planted last week, my Pittsburgh Penguins. You know that’s what matters–our worlds, governed by our love.
Trouble is that this week all the recent disclosures plus the overload of various activists asking for my 876th signature and accosting me for not pledging a mere $25 to their 876 causes sent me into one helluva dark place, and I ended up displaying a similar infantile rant at those who in no way deserve to witness or be bombarded by little boy Jack. What I needed was a time out.
Within What You Endure
Beneath the quilt you lie
still in the chronic morning
light, eyes on the ceiling’s blank
canvas. You paint your father
in a dark blue shirt kneeling
in his garden, you sitting small
beside him, he handing you
his trowel and a seedling,
as if to say, “You plant this one.”
And you imagine you do. Then
you paint your own house
half-built at the foot of a gentle
rise within the quiet landscape
of a stagger of pines higher
than the roof. The sun is half way
up. You put down your brush,
and welcome the day, your day
spreading out into its question.