#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream

“Everything in the forest is the forest.”

~ Ferris Jabr, “The Social Life of Forests,” New York Times

Morning is frozen. The field is crunch, crunch. My cheeks are wisped pink. The river is windless, gentle, giving up its edges to the freeze. The brook, the wetlands are busy with pictures. It’s Monday. I spend time looking at ice images. A match is struck. A blue egg floats in a universe. I manage to keep my feet dry. I am listening to the New York Times Sunday Read, quoted and linked above, about forests. Everything in the brook is the brook. Everything in the river is the river. Everything in the wetlands is the wetlands. Every season. A Monday in December. I go into the letters of my mother and make a poem. I wrap birthday presents for my son. Frank and I drive the two miles to drop them and the sun is setting in purples. We come home and Facetime him, watch him open his gifts, which fit perfectly. First, this son was a fertilized egg, silver blued and gold.