“But this I know; the writer who possesses the creative gift owns something of which he is not always master--something that at times strangely wills and works for itself. He may lay down rules and devise principles, and to rules and principles it will perhaps for years lie in subjection; and then, haply without any warning of revolt, there comes a time when it will no longer consent.”
― Charlotte Brontë

They grow from separate vines, and grow entwined, this pumpkin and this watermelon. An abundance of both in the garden. Still, the tomatoes and squash give. Impatiently, I wait for the eggplants to replenish from their tiny, purple flowering. And ate the leftovers from last night: better today, even, my eggplant cutlets in roasted cherry tomatoes. More and more cucumbers. The promise of butternut squash and more than I could possibly eat. A root cellar! I need one. We had one on the farm in Maine when I was young. My mother made me go and get the potatoes and I was afraid to put my hands in the dark bottom of the bins. A bike ride, into Medfield, I took my time in the sun. Then, time at my desk. September, new beginnings, approach. I sent an e-mail about my Farm Pond Writer’s Collective becoming my Charles River Writing Collective as my friend will be gone from the pond. And, my Tuesday night critique group to restart. And submitted poems. AND! To my great delight, an acceptance of a poem by a journal I have submitted to many times, and finally, THRUSH has chosen to publish my poem, “woods cycle,” in November. A poem I have worked on for a couple of years, here and there. Recently, revised it again, began sending it out, and two other journals who rejected it said it was almost selected. And I a delighted that THRUSH is where it will appear. And I did not know how I would get a poem going for tomorrow, as I had many interruptions. Who knows why I picked a very rough draft from last April to work on. It didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Then I had to take a break for a family member, and when I returned, I managed to come up with a draft that I sent off tonight. I am really enjoying the biography of Charlotte Bronte by Claire Harman, A Fiery Heart, that I’m listening to on Audible. Passing the meadow, I stopped on the top of the hill on my bike. I have not walked this favorite meadow in such a long time. All the milkweed podding in the August green and blue all over. This blog, the writing I do here, is where the words and thoughts and feelings of “woods cycle” began.