Mornings? Ask Me. On Stafford’s Poem, Kitchens, and Rivers
It’s a fortunate morning when you get up early enough. Before packing of lunches. And finding of violin. To dig into one of the poetry books that stack around the kitchen. Heap in baskets. Pile on tables. Sometimes in use as a coaster. Just a few more minutes before the kids wake up. You could spend some of those minutes to enter the stream of another poet’s vision. Choose at random. Just start. For the reader no poetry book is ever done. (Well, none that are worthwhile.) Lik