Why this?

The occasional poem of my own and a generous helping of work by others that I find inspiring. Site is named for a beloved book by one of my favorite writers, Italo Calvino, whose fanciful work lights--and delights--my soul.

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Untitled [The more I go, the harder it becomes to return]

The more I go, the harder it becomes to return. To anywhere. There is no one at the
ocean this morning. I walked by the campsites and smelled eggs and pancakes. And
there were sweet Oregon cherries and watermelon. I wonder if I can go back—what
purpose there would be in it—or in any other thing? There's something expensive both
ways. Yesterday a woman told me to get a tide schedule and if the people refused to
give it to me, I had to insist. She usually gets hers from the Hilton but I don't know
where that is so I just imagine the schedule. There is a tide. I can tell that much about
anything. What's before me, what isn't. How it got there is a mystery involving only
itself—I have no part in that, none at all—my job remains in the thing as it is in the
moment it's before me, having left all of its other places, having come this far to show
up at all.

--Jennifer Denrow

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