No title for this post, or for the poem, either

It's been a challenge to make room in my life for this new venture, this blogging. (My friend Stephanie strongly objects to the term "blog," which she finds inelegant. A little too phonetically close to "blah," I suppose. She suggests "wlog.") But I'm happy to say that a new, faster internet connection is on the way, that I have a new lamp for better late-night typing light--this should make for improved ease and frequency--and that this morning there were eight swans on the pond. There is a mean-looking spider stuck in my sink--I keep forgetting Annie Dillard's advice to leave a towel hanging over the side so they can climb out--and the mice are rustling under the sink again. In the bush--well, this is hardly the bush really but it ain't town either--the question "Who is my neighbour?" takes on a whole new meaning.

I thought I would post a poem, just for kicks. Suggestions for a title are welcome.



I woke heavy, ashes
in my mouth, smoke
from the previous night
still hugging my head.
I take my worries to the chair,
bid them to sit down:
snare of debt tightening,
and I despair that I can ever
love wisely.
My salvation: countless mornings
have perfected the habit
and I open the Bible,
words of Christ in red:
"Worry not." He calls me
"child." And though
He says nothing about the robin,
I know I am to turn
my attention to it, taking
the rain as an invitation
to wait patiently, precisely,
on the green, sopping lawn.