#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream
“This human being is a guest house
Every morning a new arrival
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
Some momentary awareness comes
As an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them! . . .”
Excerpt from Rumi, A Guest House
Everything gorgeously drenched. Three milkweed seeds in a wet pod won’t fly today. The fiddleheads were furled and now they are fried. River trees blaze above the rippling. We walk and walk a long time, and Suzi and Charlie lead the way over the path of fallen leaves in the quiet woods, near the river and the bubbling brook. Feet wet, cold hands, storm coming, season changing, homecoming. What I do today I have not done in months, and so, it’s exciting. I sent out batches of poems to journals. Pushed buttons, sent seeds, they flew out into the submittable universe. Like a quickening. The poems I’ve been seeding, simmering, revising, are ready to travel. We shall see, if, where they land. A sweet visitor landed on the doorstep in the late afternoon. My youngest, home for a meal, for a hug, for a shoulder rub, for a talk, for a sit by the fire. And then, upstairs, a few more items from the left behind room, carried out the door. What thick clouds hung in the sky today. The fire, so necessary, so desirable.