Reading a book is one of life’s great pleasures, but reading the deluxe edition of a book, like Fagels’ translation of The Iliad, where the cover is textured and ribboned in the most amazing blue, and the pages are thick and the font is just the right size for aging eyes, is magnificent.
Some books are just regular old books, but I still love them. Just like some days are regular old days, and I mostly love them too, but once in a while, a day will be deluxe. It’s pouring rain again, and today is dreary, but on the day I wrote this poem, it was clear and warm. I remember sitting in the sunny part of my kitchen, reading and feeling immense happiness.
The day became even better when a poem found me, as poems rarely do, with a slice of time in which to write it. And I did, and here it is
Poetry and Other Writing 