Fifty years ago I imagined that I might be a poet, but when Syracuse University turned me down for the creative writing program, then called to offer me a fellowship in the academic program in English in the graduate school, I accepted the verdict.
But the impulse occasionally flickers, especially when a memory is triggered. This I felt impelled to write today, and you may think what you like of it.
Bedtime
My grandmother kneels at the hearth,
banking the coals in the fireplace,
while I lie under the quilt she made,
turning from the cold wall toward the glow,
beloved, safe, and sleepy.
She is gone, and the farm is sold.
Nothing physical remains.
But still at night I lie in bed
on the side that turns toward the glow.
