I am reading poetry these days more than I read the news. I gather armfuls of poetry: Whitman, Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley, Keats, Yeats — Whitman again. I scoop up handfuls of Glück and Rilke; they must be pored over, examined in the hand, turned over like seeds and nuts in the palm, rationed carefully. I take a pinch of Emily: a little bit seasons the stew. She is the salt that brings up the flavor of these potato days and the sigh of attention to the diamond ground upon which I walk. There is Milosz and Szymborska and Herbert — both Zbigniew and George — Heaney, Hill, and Kavanaugh, Neruda, Bishop, Olds, Harjo, and Frost. Always Frost, even in summer. Collins, Stafford, Kooser, Hirshfield, Basho, Beowulf, Sidney, and Howe. Shakespeare then and again and now; Larkin, Levertov, Wiman, and Brooks. Am I Donne (not yet) or Job or the Psalmist? St. Paul on a good day, St. John's Chapter One, Isaiah, Jeremiah, or Solomon's Song? Or Morrison, Clifton, Hayden or Hughes? I am reading poetry more than the news, for the news does not change; it's not new. But the poetry I read can be read more than once, gathered in armfuls, held in the hand, salted and savored and sung on demand, and carried like water in these desert lands.