#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream

“. . . Light that’s sucked into

the eye, warming the brain

with wires of color.

Light that hatched life

out of the cold egg of earth. . .”

Excerpt from “October,” by May Swenson

Shining gold leaves between rocks, like a cache of spilled coins. Oh, Swenson’s lines from October leave me breathless. It was rainy, so wet. I enticed my friend and our dogs happily ran through the dripping red and gold peace of these river woods. October light of the cloud covered day. So much conversation, after absence, to catch up on. We drench in the rain of conversation. Stopping for views. Then, home, I make a fire that blazes the colors of woods and warm up. I submit poems. One I haven’t opened in ten months goes out the door after some tweaks with the batch of others. I work on a new one, ekphrastic, a Georgia O’Keeffe landscape I hope to write a poem from, and it’s a bit of an awkward start. And I am letting it be that. An awkward start. Waiting for the hum; listening for the hum. Let the humming rise. In the middle of this, my son is nearby suddenly. I close my computer. This is a time to listen, be aware. Attention, I want to give this. So we get him some late breakfast and I learn what is on his mind and heart. Then Frank comes in, and it’s the three of us by the fire, and I’m back to work, waiting for the hum. Receptivity. What will come.