“Art is our chief means of breaking bread with the dead.” —W.H. Auden

I saw the sunrise from bed, purple, pink, delight. And went out, spent a good time in the wetlands and woods, quiet, peaceful, and, in deep conversation the whole way almost with my sister, a lovely refreshment of sister-talk. I had already prepped my prompt for the Farm Pond Writers––bread. A delicious prompt for writing from bread. It went very well, all the writing. I thought I would have a break in the afternoon. I did get enough time to eek out a first draft of a new poem for tomorrow. Then I had a meeting to produce an event for IWWG, and then I was asked to moderate the TLAN event I was a reader for tonight, and said yes, and suddenly my day rushed a bit. In such a good way; how fortunate I am to be involved with so many writers in a day. I managed to pick my own poems to read and get to the event tonight and make some food for the family too. It was a wonderful event such a diverse line-up, and there was music, storytelling, poetry, prose. I’m exhausted now, having gotten to bed and tweaked the poem, so rough, and sent it off. And now must sleep to dream of bread, I hope.