this diary is dedicated to all
image and poem below the fold
Air
by W.S. Merwin
Naturally it is night.
Under the overturned lute with its
One string I am going my way
Which has a strange sound.
This way the dust, that way the dust.
I listen to both sides
But I keep right on.
I remember the leaves sitting in judgment
And then winter.
I remember the rain with its bundle of roads.
The rain taking all its roads.
Nowhere.
Young as I am, old as I am,
I forget tomorrow, the blind man.
I forget the life among the buried windows.
The eyes in the curtains.
The wall
Growing through the immortelles.
I forget silence
The owner of the smile.
This must be what I wanted to be doing,
Walking at night between the two deserts,
Singing.
a personal note: Today’s image is a straight-out ripoff from the idea behind the current cover of the New Yorker magazine, with no reluctance and no apologies.
The dead that day included quite a number from my town, and from surrounding towns, as the two flights that struck the World Trade Center towers originated from Boston’s Logan airport. The crew for American Flight 11 was based here. One flight attendant lived in Acton; the pilot made his home in Chelmsford.
The co-owner of a healthcare software company where I once worked for several years lost his wife. A woman who held the same job that I once had at another software company was a passenger in the first plane. She was heading out to cover her west coast sales territory, just as I had done years ago.
And there were so many others, each with neighbors and acquaintances and families left behind.
I offer this image of Philippe Petit, and Merwin’s poem, in celebration of the lives that were cut short; and in the hope that the memories they inspire bring us peace.
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