In The Wake

In The Wake

The dog sleeps on the area rug near my feet.
It is in shades of eggplant, gold, and light
green. She is easy now after a day of pain

and too much excitement.  She can feel
the tension in my body lifting, three drinks
and some chips into evening.  We all choose

our battles. I hate cliches, but that particular
one rings true, true as my phone going off
beside me, someone, most likely my youngest,

responding to my comment about buying
more toilet paper and hand sanitizer, the new
virus encroaching, the seemingly nonchalant

responses I have rendering me to something
of a skeptic. I have more to say, but I want
to look at this message. I want to say--go,

love your life, keep going, always keep
going. And, I will, and I will sleep this night
with the mother's fear of all invaders to her

children's happiness and health doing
their best to wreck her, to wreck life, to create
new pathways to all of the radical unknowns.

Anything But The Thing

Anything But The Thing

I read about flying squirrels and the lesser
known flying frogs. I marvel at their ingenuity,
their ability to take me away from this night's

poll results. I find them far more progressive
than the majority of Americans and can understand
why and how they have lived so long in such

diverse and ever-changing ecosystems, while
their human counterparts keep finding more
and more ways to destroy habitat, soft grasses,

clean waterways, hope. Like many, I concede
to the person who can eradicate this vile monster
who sits as High King in the microcosm

of existence I inhabit on this planet, cleanse
the unspeakable harm he has done. It comes
to this: stand inside a little booth in the middle

of nowhere or the middle of seemingly
everywhere, and cast out your line, the only
line left, for one on the left who knows

the right has clearly forgotten that fish
have feelings, too, and that the soft bottom
of the river cannot hold for long under

the heaviness of ignorance.

Downy woodpeckers

Still The Same

Every day.

Just lie in bed and play solitaire or read a little.

Get up to make breakfast and lunch. Lie back down.

Get up and pick up a few things. Lie back down.  House in need of care.  Bathroom ceiling needs the mildew/mold cleaned off and needs to be painted.

Plants need care.

Floors need to be swept and mopped.

Porch, too.

I do nothing but get fatter by the day.  Why can't I change?  I could blame my lack of trying on many things, but the bottom line is that I am making the decision not to change.

A photo reminiscent of Wyeth

I posted this pic on FB and a friend said it made her think of Wyeth.

Red Tulip In Negative Mode

Moon images

"...the night went clamorous with hounds howling in rondelays, ..."

How many times do you want to write something about the moon that is fresh and new? How many times do you want to take the reader to a place they have not been before or have been but find it hard to articulate? Many, for me-- this person who loved to write a long, long time ago. This is an excerpt from The Orchard Keeper. One of the many favorites in this book.

"Low in the east a red moon was coming up through the clouds, a crooked smile, shard of shellrim pendant from some dark gypsy ear. He raised his horn. His call went among the slopes echoing and reechoing, stilling the nightbirds, rattling the frogs in the creek to silence, and on out over the valley where it faded thin and clear as a bell for one hovering breath before the night went clamorous with hounds howling in rondelays. pained wailings as of phantom dogs dementing their own demise."