. . . She who in her last days loved too well to lose
a single weed to namelessness, in creosote,
blue grama, goatsbeard that is not thriving, is,
amid the cattails’ brittle whisper whispers
O Law’, Honey, ain’t this a praiseful thing. . .

Excerpt from “The Resevoir,” by Christian Wiman

The mushrooms are sprouting up under the trees and in the shaded grass, like this chalice one bursting up under the pines. We walked for a good long walk into the woods and through the wetlands where the cattails thrive in the soupy, swampish wetlands that spill over the banks of the Charles. I feel the changing of the light. Today, I was allowed to be tired, physically. Still, I stayed busy. Just busy with tired. I prepped for my Wednesday morning writers which resumes tomorrow. Choosing a poem and writing a prompt and warming up to being present and attentive and conscious and aware of the needs of this group going into its fifth year. Can it be? Yes, we’ve completed four years of these weekly Wednesdays. These chalice mushrooms make me feel as if I’m in church outdoors in the sunshine. And I am; it’s a walking religion. As Thoreau described: