“. . . you know, the idea that time heals all wounds is not really true. Our wounds aren't really ever healed. We just learn to walk with them. . . I mean, I take Fred along with me in the things that I do - or Robert or my father or my mother. You know, whoever wants to come along, they can be with me. And - you know, and if I want them, I can sense them. You know, we have our own life, but we can still walk with the people that we miss or that we lose. And I think it's very important to not be afraid to experience joy in the middle of sorrow.”

~Patti Smith, interview with Terri Gross on Fresh Air, 10-23-15

Thick and soupy, the clouds graying the woods dull. Most of the interesting ice is gone. I’m out early, craving color. I take many pictures that bore me. I find some bright bark in the swamp, all wet and saturated with reds the color of my coat. The beaver is still working its stump by the river. Fresh Air, Terri Gross’ show on NPR is replaying episodes and I listen, again, to one with Patti Smith, she covers a lot of ground, and speaks so poignantly about loss of loved ones and how she keeps them with her and finds permission to feel joy after loss, to trust balance––we’re meant to love our lives. I go back to my riptide poem and change the title after all, even though I was sure I wouldn’t. I see this new one is better. I work on revisions from the workshop Friday. I struggle with the last lines. I’m sure I’ve found it. Then, a few minutes later, having walked away from it, realize it can be read by a reader in exactly the opposite way that I mean it. So I go back to it. Then, riding in the car to a friend’s house to watch the Patriots with y husband, I think I have it this time, and I text it to myself. When we arrive, for football, my friend says, “You sent me a text I couldn’t make sense of.” Well, no wonder. I’ve texted her my last line instead of myself. I get home and fuss with it. Well, the poem is either better and working or it isn’t. I will bring it to workshop Monday night.