Month: August 2013

39

816

It’s hard to believe that I wrote these words about turning 35 four whole years ago.  And that in a year I’ll be writing about crossing over into my 40s.  While mid-August is the height of summer’s dog days, fall is also undeniably whispering around the edges of these hot hours.  I have noticed some red leaves in trees, can tell that it’s getting dark earlier, and sense the new season that is arriving.  It was on this hinge between seasons that I arrived (three weeks early, of course!), and I’ve been drawn to borders and transitions ever since.

Another year, here we go.  Towards the radiance.

My poetry shelf

photo

The living room repaint resulted in some joyful discoveries, some weeding-out, and a happy reunion with books I haven’t opened in a long time.  This is my poetry shelf.  It’s far from complete, but you can see Mary Oliver (lots and lots), Jane Kenyon, Jena Strong, Naomi Shihab Nye, Stanley Kunitz, Sharon Olds, Erica Jong, ee cummings, Ranier Maria Rilke, Maxine Kumin, Adrienne Rich, Anne Sexton, and Wallace Stevens.  Curiously, Wendell Berry is missing; I need to find out where his books ended up.  You can also see my much-loved and heavily-annotated Norton anthologies from college.  I think this is my favorite shelf.

Saturday sail

Whit diving

Our sail was unexpectedly adventurous, with far more wind than anticipated.  After we got back to the harbor, we swam.  This is Whit’s favorite thing in the world.  I suspect he’s missing his sister, though.

the evening of the day, and of the summer

Sippican sunset

Sunset over the harbor near our house, Saturday night.  I kept hearing It is the evening of the day in my head as we walked down to the water, admired the boats, listened to the faint snapping of halyards against masts.

The second half of August is the evening of summer.  Slowly, creakingly, we turn towards a new season, towards the fall which is, to me, undeniably about endings of things.  I was born right at this fulcrum, and more and more I feel sure that contributes to my awareness of these shifts and to my propensity to tiptoe along the borders of things.