“Poetry is tribal, not material. As such it lights the fire and keeps watch over the flame. Believe me, this is where you get warm again. And naked. This is where you can remember the good times along with the worst; where you are not allowed to forget the worst, else you cannot be healed. This is where your memory must be exacting …”

– C D Wright

A two walk day because I woke late. And Charleston does not like a shortened time outdoors, and neither do I. Frost in the meadow is cheerful, holiday-ish. And there is a smoky fog over the river of November. I have my poem for Friday workshop. I drive the back roads to Concord listening the whole way to the testimony of a remarkable woman, bold with integrity. She is telling her truth to the world on live television, speaking truth to power. I listen, breathlessly, to her entire opening statement of testimony: Marie Yovanovitch. Speaking truth to power without rancor or drama. Her voice is softly, momentously authoritative. I am at the workshop, and force myself to turn the radio off, go inside. I’m glad I did. Getting lost in poems is wonderful work. I’m heartened by the feedback for my poem. I appreciate hearing all that is working. And I have a feeling I will know what to do to make it better. It’s a good poem. In the afternoon, it’s suddenly warm. Relatively, warmer, and I treat us to a second walk to the trestle bridge. Sky has brightened and cleared. The river shimmers in a beam of sunshine over the rippling surface of the Charles, view from the rails. The extra cold still in my bones from this week lifts. I am sparkled. I am shimmering with gratitude for this day in this landscape of my life.