There was nothing epic on the journey to the office this morning. The road unfolded as it does just about every day. The parking lot supplied ample spaces. The trek up the backstairs yielded no surprises, and though the tasks were manifold, they were not Herculean.

The rain came in the afternoon. The sky darkened, the streets emptied. The hail reported in other towns did not come down where I was.

And so the day progressed, from task to task, until, as I shut down my computer, I saw the headline: "Poet Adrienne Rich, 82, has died".

She held no special place in my pantheon of poets. She simply resided there with many that I loved.

The journey home was quiet too. I fed the dog and fed myself and then sat down to write.

I'm tired now, as is too often the case. Words must be gentle conjured, and there's the challenge.

For as she said, "Tonight no poetry will serve".