i wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.
that line of poetry has been flickering in my mind of late, like fireflies in the gloam of an Ohio evening, or the dark embers of a finished fire, pushed to the side with the fireplace brush and ah! those embers are still burning, those orange bits of fire that will likely die out of their own accord, but worried mothers can take those tiny bits of fire and make of them conflagrations of entire households after we all go to bed. The line of poetry is from a poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins, which I first read in college, when poetry meant everything, when I thought language would save me. So bear with me, lovers of the declarative sentence. I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day. Some of you know that my afternoon naps, which I need, I need that stolen sleep in order to be awake and present with the boys when they come home from school, falling over themselves to tell me their days, to squabble about toothpaste and pajamas, to tuck into my body to hear Captain Underpants, an unfortuna