Last fall I ordered a chapbook written by my favorite contemporary poet, Louise Gluck. It is called October and was to be a birthday present for myself. The chapbook never arrived and I was never charged for it. With the darkening of the night and the stagnant greyness of the days, I forgot all about finding it elsewhere.
The winter passage was survived, and the rain arrived to scrub the ground clean of dry grasses. The sun blossoms trees, and we remember the feeling that is yearly forgotten about the beauty of awakening life, the feeling of hope running through your blood and lining the pit of your stomach.
And today, after a full year of seasonal changes, the thin black chapbook lined with one stark poem has unexpectedly arrived. October arrived in November, right when I needed it more than ever. Thank you.
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