from a Journal, Circa 1980

 

I climbed to the top of Helsinki’s highest ski jump and swayed with my arms out like a fluid moon-struck Jesus but I then climbed down again, thinking of my mother.

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Out in the courtyard as the evening news was going on, I played with a wooden top and laughed because it sounded like my cat.

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You don’t have to be well known. Repeat. It’s enough to read books and drink tea. Rain welcome.

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I love small littered towns one sees from the train.

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The sun in memory is always as strong as before.

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Theodore Roethke. My buttercup.

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Water shining through the trees. What a bargain!

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Blind I drive home through the glitter of moon-skin treetops.