A Minute with Ira Joe
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.’
Categories: Ira Joe

