Still room in both our two remaining fall four-hour Zoom workshops: The Intuitive Leap on November 14, and Poetry, from Flicker to Flame, on November 17. Click here and scroll for all the details.

Half a row of a bookshelf here in the House Made of Books is dedicated to books from my childhood. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Heidi. Bambi. My Side of the Mountain. The Trumpet of the Swan. A strange little book called Editha’s Burglar. I don’t re-read these books; they’re embedded in my bones. Once in a while I run my fingers along their tattered, fraying covers.

A while ago I realized that these books are about children alone in the world, either literally or because they can’t find their place. Children like that sometimes grow up to be writers, sending words into the darkness, trying to un-lonely the lonely.

from October, by Louise Glück

I was young here. Riding
the subway with my small book
as though to defend myself against

this same world:

you are not alone,
the poem said,
in the dark tunnel.

*I wrote this blog a few days ago and found out late last night that Louise Glück died yesterday. I’ve loved her work forever and am so sad she’s gone. Click here for more information about her life and poetry.

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