#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream

 Things are going badly. Handbasket badly.

What sort of things? you ask.

The usual: the Red Sox season, war, those wild cells
proliferating to kill.

So God borrows scissors from the Three Fates
and opens a salon downtown, unisex, no less.

People come and sit in the chairs under nylon bibs
like agreeable oversized babies while God runs
His holy fingers through their hair. . .

Excerpt from “God Becomes a Hairdresser,” PENELOPE SCAMBLY SCHOTT

Wetness. Who cares? Better pictures. I go out, thinking I’ll run, but my body says no, take your time, see what’s there. Colors and shapes. A study of leaves on the ground. Mushy walk, and it’s so satisfying to be out. I can really concentrate. Then, at my desk, I need to see what to do with revising this newest poem from yesterday, after feedback last night. Now, instead of Friday morning workshop I will go to a Wednesday workshop twice a month. But I also have a hair appointment. Fortunately, I bring my computer and get to work on the poem in the salon chair. It’s always sweet to see Linda. Linda, my hairdresser of forever, Linda, the listener, cheerful, bright, beautiful, honest and real Linda the only person I trust with my hair. And I make some progress on the poem in the chair. It’s especially nice having Frank home this week after his week away. And my son comes for some leftovers tonight before leaving for his drive to Vermont. In the late afternoon, despite the light rain, I go outside with the special one for another walk, a slow one, looking at all the plants and picking herbs, smelling each one the oregano and basil and parsely to go in the sauce and the rosemary and lavender and sage just for fun.