#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream

Blue Moon in Morning Brook

Leaf impression on railroad tie

. . . As the lights darkened, as the lights of night brightened,

We would try to imagine them, try to find each other,

To construct peace, to make love, to reconcile

Waking with sleeping, ourselves with each other,

Ourselves with ourselves. We would try by any means

To reach the limits of ourselves, to reach beyond ourselves,

To let go the means, to wake. . .

~ Muriel Rukeyser, excerpt from “Poem”

An earthly generous relief of sunshine for a Monday morning after rain. First, at the bench on the river’s edge, I stop and breathe in the splendor of light. I love this bench, this landing, this view to the quiet river. The land is wet, and everything on it. The leaves are rust-tired, so many dead leaves yet to fall after the storm. I am looking forward to my poetry workshop tonight, and have a poem to write from the letters. An acorn, shiny and bright as a tiny pumpkin, sits at my feet in the leaves. A cheerful acorn. I pass the enchanted water color brook: I look into the reflection and find a blue moon shining. And I walk for a long time with the dogs in the wind because we don’t want to go in. It’s bright and fresh for my spirit, this day before election day, with all the worry and fret and fears and threats. All this tumult, strange, unfamiliar, never before. The news of the day gets worse and worse and yet here, here is a golden imprint of a leaf on the railroad tie. The gold fabric of it remains. I stop and admire a whole series of them along an old rail. All of this outdoors today must give me hope that the outcome of tomorrow will be brighter than all the tumult portends. Democracy will hold. I write my poem. I make a quiche. I serve the dinner by the fire. I go to my workshop. We laugh and listen to beautiful poems and make them better. We are together, paying attention, making art. It feels like it matters. My son makes something that matters and sends it to me: a recording of him playing his flute in the lovely acoustics of a friend’s meditation studio. The flute is the music of the gold leaf.

I have set my alarm. I plan to vote, in person, as the door opens.