#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream

Brook running gold

. . . This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks. . .

~ Excerpt from “Perhaps the World Ends Here,” Joy Harjo

Swim, walk, try to digest news, in water, in woods, by the brook running with blue sky and golden light from above. Day framed by poetry workshops, this morning and this evening. I have made progress on my poem revision and still have problems to solve. Dinner to welcome Wave home from his weekend, we circle up. The fire is lit. A pitcher of water, candles. Fish and vegetables. Filling each other in, sharing the clean up. In the afternoon, I heard Charlie barking at the door, but I was preoccupied. Then, saw out my window, some children in the yard. Our neighbors. I opened my door, called down, they were there with their mother, looking up. They baked us a pie. An apple pie, as a thanks for our gathering last week. I go downstairs to the door. They have left the pie on the floor outside the door, wrapped in tin foil. I pick it up before Charlie wants it. It’s warm from the oven. It’s warm from their oven to our table.