By the time you read this, I’ll have turned fifty and will have been married, both during a lovely, seven-day stretch in late October here in eastern North Carolina. This month’s Congeries, alas, contains not a single epithalamium. However, reading again through these poems, I find much to consider about love and perseverance and mistakes and resolutions. These lines from Peter Cooley, especially, keep insisting themselves, and for that I’m grateful: “The day is young, the wind is very cold. / The wind is gold, I say, then green or black / Sifting through the trees, wind is ours. // Wind blows the open spaces of temples / In our imaginations and the hues / Cathedral windows shine through. It lifts us.” Happy Thanksgiving.