I languish without a typewriter, summer advances closer to its end.
In a home far from my own I have bent metal and sanded wood, and painted a wall.
I have chatted with teenagers about pop music and conversed with a Bulgarian in Spanish over medieval manuscripts.
Trying to maintain my faith in the rightness of the difficult and fragile,
my conviction of the wrongness of arbitrary power.
Some days it's easier than others.
The Snake River is treacherous but its valley is wide and welcoming,
gorgeous in its bounty after a wet spring.
The raspberries are on, and people sell Utah cherries and apricots by the roadside.
But living here permanently seems impossible for the forseeable future.
My soul cannot survive long, I fear, without a garden of my own.
