#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream
I wake to the drenching rain and think about the marathoners in Hopkinton, nearby, readying to run in the rain to Boston. Bleak start. But the dogs and I go out. Crossing the tracks, on the rusty rails, Charlie spots a frog and doesn’t harm it. Just looks at it. I kneel to meet it. Ask if it minds if I take its picture. He opens and closes his little mouth. We look at each other for a minute. I am aware that when I was young I was phobic of frogs, and now I am not, and I’m glad. He is (almost) sweet enough to kiss.
I thank the frog and start to go and spy another frog on the rails as well. Why not, in this spring rain?
I work on my post card poems for group tonight. I change the title, the point of view, then change it back. I fuss a little with them, but they are ready. I meet a poet friend for dinner and we talk poetry and I read her splendid poem for our group tonight, grateful that she trust me with it. Our group is full tonight, so many poems, so many good poems, and I appreciate the feedback on my poem. I wonder when the mud in the woods will dry and the winds will die down. There is a fire in Paris, the roar of inconceivable loss.