Before I walk in the bright sunshine of a perfect June morning, I write a draft of a new poem for today’s, part II, of Natalie Shapiro’s workshop in Brookline. It’s from a childhood photo I’ve kept on my desk for a few months that I’ve been glancing at every now and then, waiting to for the right moment to explore it in writing. I am surprised at what comes, and that anything with a shape and form and sense and surprise comes at all. It’s good enough. Then, to the meadow. We cross the trestle bridge, the dogs and I, and cross Hospital Road and go to the un-mowed meadow, follow a thin trail through tall grass, passing the chicory blooms and up the hill, the day warming and warming under the sun. On our return, the dogs happily head straight for a dip and a drink in the Charles before we cross back over the trestle and home to water all the new plants all over the yard. I must make my enchiladas for my Wednesday night writers gathering tonight after the poetry, our end of season ritual: a story fire in Liz’s yard, with family and friends to hear the writing that’s been developed in our workshop on Farm Pond all year. It’s a jam packed day of poetry and prose. The workshop is rich and helpful; I get some helpful feedback. The other poems shared our rich and interesting and beautiful. I race home, very tired, and grab my enchiladas and go to Liz’s. A perfect June night outdoors on the pond. We don’t need the fire for warmth. We need the fire for the circle of stories, the ritual. We eat and greet each other. I am so proud of all the writing that’s shared from our special group. The fires flames and smokes in the warm breeze blowing over us all. And now, to sleep.