MY LIFE

 Sometimes I see it as a straight line drawn with a pencil and a ruler transecting the circle of the world or as a finger piercing a smoke-ring, casual, inquisitive, but then the sun will come out or the phone will ring and I will cease to wonder if it is one thing, a large ball of air and memory, or many things, a string of small farming towns, a dark road winding through them.  Let us say it is a field I have been hoeing every day, hoeing and singing, then going to sleep in one of its furrows, or now that it is more than half over, a partially open door, rain dripping from the eaves.  Like yours, it could be anything, a nest with one egg, a hallway that leads to a thousand rooms- whatever happens to float into view when I close my eyes or look out a window for more than a few minutes, so that some days I think it must be everything and nothing at once.