I am up late, as I have been so much of my life, as I have been even more so for the last year, as I was writing a poem a day, a poem purporting to be a letter to someone I know. Today is the 365th day of that year, and I will write a 50-page poem to my wife today. As the first poem was to her, so will be the last in the numerical sequence. I began this project the day I turned 50, and today is the day my wife does the same, the day we are the same age, the only such day there will be this year, for there is only one such day every year.
In the last day, with traveling, my son's graduation from college, and the complications from both, I have let slip the finishing of a couple of letters, though each was begun on the appointed day. All these poems are done now. Three hundred and sixty-four poems are behind me, and one before for this set of 365 poems. I am caught up, but I'm 50 pages behind. I always am.
A tiring year it's been. A tiring day. And now I'll go to bed for a few hours to rest for a day of intense writing, for a day of figuring out how to write a reasonable poem of a huge length to the woman I've been married to for twenty-seven years. I've no idea how to do it. I never do. My only plan ever is to start.
And then I see what happens.