A moment later Peacock writes about herself, I rushed from teaching children in the daytime to teaching a graduate course at night, cramming in my social life like sweaters crushed, last-minute, into a bursting suitcase. How busy Peacock is. Here is a woman on the move, a busy young person with limited time for a social life. Why, Peacock's just like us, we're expected to think. Still and composed, she rested there almost as if she were a portrait of herself, the cloud of her dark hair suspended over her hand-knit sweater.
Peacock asks ingenuously.
The rhythm of the dozen Lets Jane Kenyon uses can lull you into an attitude of prayer. Yet her poem provides the liveliest kind of devotion because the language both repeats andquickens with change. Like the mottled light of dusk, the Lets move in a scattered pattern, like most patterns in nature. No Gertrude Stein here. No James Joyce.