#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream

After the Storm, Moon

You may find yourself entering the prose poem innocently, disarmed by its modesty, not anticipating its currents. But a good prose poem, in a few short, unassuming lines, will sweep you gently from the mundane into the mythical.

~ David Shumate

it’s a day to run. The woods are after-storm untidy with downed branches, so I have to watch my way. No photos, I don’t stop to focus. I log my six miles listening to the New York Times Book Review podcast. I am always wanting to find what next to read. After, I work on the problem poem. I decide to turn it into a prose poem, well, to see if I can. For an hour I try. Still, it’s not there. Tomorrow I will start a new one. Perhaps, unless I find a way with this. Tonight, a fantastic thunderstorm blew up and troubled the dogs. Frank and I were playing pickle ball with friends and heard the intense rumble inside in the courts. At home, my daughter said, the thunder cracked and shook the whole house. When I went outside to my car there were fast moving clouds in the night sky, rushing away, and a half moon blinked. We went to dinner with friends, and after dinner, on the way to my car I looked up again. Cloudless. Black sky, half moon. November weather.