January 30, 2011

J: Chipped away at the unyielding stone of my novel. Also wrote a poem for a friend:

Friends turn 29

Turning twenty-nine is the seventeen of adulthood;
Once too young to smoke or drink, now just one rung short
of “I’m in my thirties.”

When I do it this March, I’ll wonder whether this year
will be the time I cram in all the accomplishments of youth
that will make them marvel.

Forget it. Let’s reckon more directly, that we were never more capable,
less foolish or forgetful, or more huge with hope or bristling certitude
than we are this year.



R:

I knitted.