[photo credit: David Martínez]
Sometimes books I read long ago and once possessed will suddenly creep back into my conscience, nagging me to reread them. Feeling restless, I begin scouring through all the bookshelves in the house, thinking that I must have misplaced the searched for volume, only to realize that, like so many books before it, I must have given it away, donated it, or traded it in for something else. ‘The Changing Light at Sandover’ is just such a book tonight. Unfindable amidst all the clutter of words and images that inhabit my home, I’m left feeling disappointed. I last immersed myself in its verses during a time of need, when I sought a muse to make sense of my life and to reaffirm my connection to the ground beneath my feet. So, why do I need it now? I honestly don’t know, but Merrill’s transmogrifying pages keep calling my name.