We haven't stopped even though it's winter and it's cold. We thought there might be at least a semblance of a break,, a chance to catch our breath and reflect, but there's still much to do, and so many things we think and talk about. I send emails and make lists of ideas and create spreadsheets of flowers; Andrew builds contraptions for hanging lights over seedlings in the basement. (He does other things too, but from what I understand this is how he spends most of his days, always listening to NPR). Everything's a bit harder when you're farming without a farm. If I stop and think about what we're doing, it really is absolutely crazy.
In winter, I have more time for reading. In the spring and summer and fall, when things get so busy and my eyes are closed before I can even fall into bed, sleeping is always preferred. But there's so much to know and so many things I want to learn, so during those seasons, I fall asleep reading and usually drop my book or Kindle on my face. Some nights I give up and just read a poem. This evening, I gave up on staying awake for anything beyond a page, and Mark Strand never disappoints. (I didn't want to disappoint either, so I found the poem online for you.)
How is it that one can say so much in so few words? Is there a poet equivalent for what Andrew and I do? I would like to be that: someone who grows beauty and creates objects so moving that words are not necessary.