6.29.09 | Spring was not acting its age. The Sunday afternoon was gray-cold with a bone-brushing dampness. I sat in a high-ceilinged room of a lovely New England colonial house listening to a poet read from her new collection. The poems were lovely and tried to warm the air. I took particular delight in one line that tossed out the word “anemones.” I lost the rest of the poem as I thought, “What a great word. ‘Anemones.’

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