When he wakes up, a weak sun is just rising
over the side of the valley. It is eight
degrees below ero in the house.
He builds a fire and makes tea. Puts out seeds
for the birds and examines the tracks
in fresh snow, still trying to learn
what lives here. He is writing a poem
when his friend calls. She asks what
he plans to do today. to write some
letters, he tells her (because he is falling
behind in his project of writing one
every day for a month).
She tells him how many letters famous poets
write each day. Says she doesn’t mean
that as criticism. After they hang up,
he stands looking at the unanswered mail
heaped high on the table. Gets back
in bed and starts reworking his poem.
~ from Refusing Heaven (Alfred A. Knopf, 2009)
