Scanning the narrative line, baited with plot, baited with climax, caught in the heaviest trees a silver mist and its damp perfume. In the knots and the roots are decades of rhythm, the way the wind blows north to south. The sway and bobbing of hills in the waves of wind. What hooks us here are all the pages blown empty. The washouts, the erosions. The stunted, crooked river trees. Ah, the unrhythmic windmill weathered grey. Who can say what man, woman, child read it and looked away. Or read it lovingly. Or refused to read the footnoes. Who will say? Between two meadowlarks, fence posts are exclamations. Wider and faster the script broadens west. Nothing to catch it, its huge and epic descriptions. Only the dark blot of ink at night where the day stops reading, stops writing and another light grey page opens at dawn. Reprinted with permission Copyright © 1980 by Susan Strayer

HOW RELATIVELY EASY by Susan Strayer

How relatively easy to enjoy the day with blue jays overhead and music. I take a sip or two of coffee and begin one poem. It is late afternoon before the period is in place. I miss you but the day is easy and I have been swimming in words. What can be more pleasurable? I miss you but it's been a good day and I read the poems off my lips under my breath like words of love. How relatively easy to be in love. Not once but a hundred times today. Each time a little bit closer to love and swimming in it. Reprinted with permission Copyright © 1980 by Susan Strayer

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