This afternoon is the first public reading from my poetry collection, The Shape of Caught Water. Though the book will not officially launch until Spring, I will stand up and bare my heart in a room of strangers and friends as winter light stripes the air in the museum where history hangs on the walls. As I was looking at the table of contents to select poems for the reading, I realized how many of the poems were written for or about my daughter. She is a "chip off of my heart", I typed to someone I'd not seen in thirty years earlier today, describing the awe-inspiring child I gave birth to. She is blistering hot and cold like lemonade and iced tea; she carries the rain in her precious hands and brings hurricane spells that seem as though they will not break for the tension of running ahead with no clear direction. She is Paul Revere. She is Emily Dickinson. The muse has visited her house and mine.
This day, for those that observe, is the first Sunday in Advent. Advent is a season observed as a time of expectant waiting and preparation for celebration. I press my fingers lightly against my eyelids and await the quiet quickening of the heart that rises and falls washing over an anxious soul. I wish for snow and fresh pinon burning in the fireplace. The gifts ahead will surely be many.
ah, yes. the blessings of our children. and of a new book -- break an iamb at the reading, dear muse of the inner sunset
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