Snapshots

Nothing like family meals on a sunny afternoon at the lake.

My first completed baby blanket for a friend. I guess I got the knitting gene.

Grandma Ruth at Kabekona on her birthday. I love her expression.

Rest and Recreation

The windows were open all night.

This morning the cool air curled up next to me in bed. I dozed, remembering that I am off for the next week. My mind quickly wandered to thoughts about what to pack, briefly concerning myself with the weather and the way the lake will look in the afternoon. The leaf shuffle outside finally got me out of bed and now the day is stretched out ahead of me like two lane traffic.

Stop and go, stop and go.

Wherever it is that we're going, dear, we're getting closer.

scraps & strays

*
the implied volume of limbs
shifts the air in gestures and gusts
and i lust for random acts
that love can only touch.

*
darkness as a familiar face,
someone i smile at in the hall-
way and awkwardly eat with
when no else is around.

*
the earth: a giant, a board, a circuit.

*
you held my waist
but i surged ahead of you ---
a love-sick spring in my step.

*
so love me love my words, my song.

*

Pivotal Prairie Moment

This afternoon at work I was looking up bizarre holidays to put on the schedule for next week (I also actually WORK at my job, don't let this fool you). One of the gems I stumbled upon was "Bad Poetry Day" which brought me back to Mrs. Anderson's fourth grade class and the FIRST poem I ever wrote. At some point during that year our class went on a field trip to a nature reserve - if you've ever been to Iowa you can pretty much visualize what a field trip to the prairie would entail. Our assignment was to bring a notebook and pencil and find a place in the tall grass to sit quietly, observe our surroundings, and write a poem.

Although I don't remember the whole thing, I do remember the first half of my first poem:

As I sit on the prairie

Gazing up at the sky

I see a bird pass

And I feel as if I could fly!


But it's also so nice

With all the insects and birds

Who do their work busily

Without any words.


The poem goes on to talk about sunlight and tall grass and by the end I am waving good-bye from a fluffy white cloud. Oddly enough, that was the pivotal moment when I realized how thrilling (and fairly simple) it was to achieve rhythm with words. My nine-year old self was hooked. Cliche? Sure. But I grew up in Iowa, folks. You do the math.