by Bradley, Bookseller
I hadn't lived anywhere north of Virginia until I moved to Boston nearly six years ago. I was born & raised in pretty much exclusively tropical or sub-tropical climates; from Okinawa to southern Alabama, my body wasn't really close with "cold." It's been an adjustment. And then, sometimes, it still is. I have to remind myself—as I did the other day when it snowed—that I can't blame it all on New England, try as I might. After all, we are absolutely laying waste to our planet. I don't need to go on about that.
What to do, what to do. I have my coping mechanisms against what I would call unseasonable weather by now. I'm making summer playlists, I'm stubbornly wearing short sleeve tee shirts outside and crossing my arms against the wind. I'm staying indoors and watching lots of movies on the Criterion streaming channel—finally, at least, I have time to watch all these four hour long films that have just been gathering internet-dust in my queue.
And, as always, I'm reading poems. Here are a few books that have been on my mind—not quite summer books, not quite winter books, but invitations, as the poet Ed Robeson writes, "to see the earth before the end of the world."