#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream

Overslept. Awake in the middle of the night, I worked, then slept late. It was bright and grew pleasantly hot. We walked for a long time and in the shade, under the canopy, we adored the soft mud, it gushed under the press of our feet. The lily of the valley has bright berries in this season. Another bird, another feather in the needles. I am indecisive. I choose to keep working on the found hybrid assemblage thing. I have a good poem finished, but I bring to group the piece I’m less certain about, because I want to learn. The poets of my Monday night, every one but me brings a very very good poem. This is remarkable, the writers in this group. I have my strange hybrid piece and I feel out of place with it, but I take away some ideas. One idea is: just work on more poems. September is cold and warm and hot. In the late afternoon I walk again, down the railroad tracks with the dogs to pick up my fixed car. It’s a long, fast, relaxing walk, and it’s cool on my arms, the fall air, but I’m hot. I go into the city and take the new apartment dwellers to dinner down the street, as it seems will be our Monday night ritual in Arlington before my workshop. My app says, at the end of this day, I have logged 8 miles. I am grateful for all the green juice of this writing day, this imperfect and hopeful and ragged writing project of every day.

Lily of the Valley