. . .The life of the bench in my imagination was more important than any practical function the bench might serve. After all, I argued, we wanted a bench so that we could look at it, so that we could imagine sitting on it, so that, unexpectedly, a bird might sit on it, or fallen leaves, or inches of snow, and the longer the bench, the greater the expanse of that plank, the more it matched its true function, which was imaginary. . .

~ Excerpt from “The Bench,” by Mary Ruefle

The river is higher than perhaps it has ever been since we’ve lived here. I saw it swelling even from my bedroom before I went out. It runs on the other side of the meadow, but I can see how full it is. Placidly so, on an unfrozen day like today. It was cold, but not uncomfortably so and I had hoped to sleep in, but I woke early and didn’t mind too much. There are only shaded spots in the wetlands that have traces of ice, and I go eagerly to find them. But the bench by my morning brook! It’s in the brook! And we lost a bench to the river a few months ago. Which Frank believes was stolen. Imagine. A kayaker or canoer rowed up to our landing and lifted up our metal bench and paddled it away––to where? And why? No, I know it was carried away in a storm. No matter. We have this other. The brook won’t carry it away, even as the brook rises and the wetlands lean out to everywhere they want to go. This is the bench my pregnant gardening daughter rested on in the shade all summer. We put it there for her. I found a little womb-like baby child figure in the wetlands ice. Today was much more of a sitting day than I’ve had in a week. I sent my Aim for Astonishing weekly prompt––one day late, and it took me all day as there were many interruptions, but it got done and I was glad. I was pleased to find out that we will have last Thursday’s make-up poetry workshop tomorrow, and my poem draft was all ready; now I have only two days to draft another for Thursday, but I feel in my brook ice bones that I will. I was very happy in the woods this morning, making my images, and tonight, finding the delightful Mary Ruefle piece on the imaginary bench, because benches, in my experience, are fanciful beings with minds of their own.