Russian village house in Gorka in Winter. 2020.
Being Wise Thirty-Six October 10, 2021
Finally the rain came. Now the onions
will have their first satisfying drink.
The flowers will bloom, bees swarm in.
Winter holds back, hesitates. I sleep a
few more hours, inhabit a quiet house,
a relieved natural world. Across from
me a dusty road in a Russian village.
Sorting books, we found it. I was
there twenty-nine years ago, and lonely.
So much has changed. I live from day
to day, glad I’m still alive, but knowing
I’ll die. I’m finishing my work in this
world. Friends accompany me. Photos
of children live everywhere. Books
overwhelm this room. Most of them
I’ll give away. I only need my favorites
now, my old friends: Austen, Trollope,
Eliot, Penny, Spencer Fleming, Cary,
my Russian dictionaries. It’s time
to publish my last book. The diaries
are for me. Other people may enjoy
the books I don’t need. The paintings
and photos will keep me company,
my children and friends. I don’t think
I’ll ever be completely lonely again.
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