I am alone in this beehive cabin. In a pensive mood, I read a book of poems while the others rush from here to there, collecting tools and coffee and hairbrushes, buzzing about solar panels and fishing and how full the propane tank is. I read a poem by Samuel Green, "Laying Stone," and am overcome. I brim with sadness and awe but even if the others stopped long enough to listen, they would not understand, they would not love this poem the way I love this poem.
Gradually, gradually, they do settle in their places. They make their quiet lists or tune the guitar or look at the atlas. It is I who needs to understand-- they practice their moments of poetry their own way. I leave them to their poetry, and go back to mine.