. . . These things happen. . .the soul's bliss
and suffering are bound together

The last, sweet exhalations
of timothy and vetch
go out with the song of the bird;
the ravaged field
grows wet with dew." 
-  Jane Kenyon, Twilight: After Haying

I woke up late, sleeping in a bit, a restless night. Decided on a run with the time I had. I thought the pond was closed, so I focused on that. Charlie and Suzi went with my daughter instead of me. The woods were hot, the river was bright. I saw no one, lost in thought. I started the summer with my body cranky at running, but now I have energy and so much less strain over the roots and rocks and sticks and needles of the wooded trails. Under the trees in the shadowed green. I go home in time for my Thursday poetry workshop, and I have a new poem, and it’s well received. I have work to do on the ending. I will find it. I’m a little bit nervous. The Boston Poetry Marathon that happens every August will be online this year, starting tonight. I have signed up to read. I’m the very first reader of this 3-day marathon. Eeek. In the late afternoon I get on my bike and spin off into the summer sky and past the meadows, so happy to be outdoors under the blue sky. I decide what poem I’ll read tonight for my five minutes: my new Farm Pond poem. My husband and daughter and I have garden veggies and pasta for dinner on the deck and talk about our days. We have zucchini and yellow sqaush galore. We have zucchini and yellow squash to spare! After dinner I slip upstairs to my computer and join the community of poets who are gathering in this strange and troubled time, this summer where we can still be together, because the organizers pulled this phenomenal experience together. Because words and listening to each other, truth and beauty, it matters, and I’m there.