The poets called again today. I put down the books on religion and history, turned off the computer, and picked up books by Roethke and Berry. Try as I might to ignore them, they still called to me and demanded to be read. Often, I have heard them and covered their call with thoughts of God, the sacred, and politics, but still they called, waiting patiently for the time they knew would come. So, I took them up again and read lines stained with handwritten notes, curved arrows, and comments from the other times. They cause me to think of things I had forgotten, or never knew, as if there is a difference.
