. . . but they won’t stop saying

how lovely the ruins,

how ruined the lovely

children must be in that birdless city.

~ Excerpt from “There Are Birds Here” by Jamaal May

This morning’s walk, a splash in mud and puddles. I go to Medfield State Hospital grounds with dogs and Special One. I follow. Charlie follows. Suzi follows. This is child’s play, restorative for all. We all follow the wanderer who is most interested in the wettest and messiest places, in circles and impulses. We come across an area of benches with mosaic tile inlays. These spark my interest. They are relatively new. Who made them, this installation, I’m not sure; but it’s lovely. I take pictures of the tiles laid in the earth and I am thinking about Ukraine. Eventually, one of us is muddy and wet enough to be getting cold, and so we return home. I go for my swim, a nice energetic one. Frank left early a.m. for Phoenix. We have not been apart in some weeks. The house is quiet. I have lunch with a dear friend and we run into another friend who joins us. Mothers, having raised our girls from scratch, all of them still friends, now women, all living in their own apartments, here and there. I appreciate this continuity. Perhaps, I think, I will get some writing done. Except there is so much unfolded laundry, and I want to start the week fresh: it’s done. And I have had a poem and four photos accepted to a journal: Plants & Poetry, in a themed issue: “my core rises,” about fungi. my core rises: mycorrhizal collection. The poem is one I wrote years ago that has finally found its perfect home!

for every submission, plants & poetry team will plant a tree or other vegetation in our food forest in bella vista, ar

After all, I take a very very restorative nap in the Sunday quiet.