An empty page; the sun shines on a field of morning snow. Children run with mufflers and mittens to write their illiterate joy. If the task cannot be done with joy, it isn’t the right task, but a thick hedge and a locked gate. That meadow is not for children, not for joy, not for remembering, not for being careless of love, without care. At that gate, idiots would express their fears, angry like beggars, complaining in alcoholic misery, but this morning the page is clean, a park swept during the night by an ice storm cruelly free, and the sun shines for the children. We enter without politics; there are more important things, even on a park bench, for brothers and sisters to bring together, for old friends, for lovers with big plans, little houses and large libraries, places for children, dictionaries of dinosaurs, etymologies of art, vocabularies of seasons and the stars, histories and societies of birds and beasts, fields and mountains, trees and flowers, buildings and rituals, ecologies, anthologies, mathematics, politics, sciences, for remembering and dreaming of the lives we’ve wanted to live. Everything else can wait; likewise, we wait for the important things, or we make them happen.