mountains at the back of my mind

Frost in the morning. The mountains pink again with dawn and snow. A filigree tiny crystals on every blade of grass, each barren twig, the puddles frozen over. We talk about jack frost and watch the skies for crows. Count them, two by two, and see the blackbirds here and there, scattered across the fields of stubby stalks of corn.

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A trip to Boston tomorrow, solo, with both boys, and I am writing lists for not forgetting: string cheese and juice boxes and etch-a-sketches and extra pairs of pants.

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An email from an editor (the editor?) wondering about the status of the book; and I have lump in my throat because the past month has been very quiet on that front. I have ideas, and I’m working, but slowly. It’s so good, so good, but is it what the editor wants?

It is more prose poem than essay, more wonder, than advice, more solace than suggestion. It is a reason, to show up, to pause, to rest with the empty space on the page; to linger with the fragments of image, with the telltale narrative of a day lived one moment after the next, spreading like concentric circles, widening the view from here, from this moment right now.

Is this important?

More important than market? What of blockbuster hits, what of print dying and all that jazz? Do I listen to that ruckus, or just make what springs up urgently?

What do you think?