This is my last night at Yaddo. It’s too soon for elegies. It’s bloody cold here at the moment, but these lines from Jane Mayhall’s poem “Balland of Playing Tennis With Theodore Roethke at Yaddo” and this photo I took of a Yaddo backwoods radiator graveyard are somehow emblematic of my contradictory thoughts on leaving. Am I sad to go? No. Am I glad to have been here? Absolutely. Did I get a lot done? How should I know? Things have accumulated. I’ll look at them later.
… And pieces came together
in the unifying decree of
the holt melting
Yaddo sun.
. . . . .