#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream

The Tree is Lit

The moment of change is the only poem.”

―Adrienne Rich

Fog, thick fog over the sunrise. It was surprisingly warm. I felt enveloped by it, and walked very slowly, feeling quite peaceful. There was melting ice all along the river, the wetlands, the brook. I spent an hour just peacefully walking our acres. I just didn’t feel like going onto the public trail. It was a kind of private retreat. Before walking I worked for awhile on my new poem, feeling satisfied for the moment. The rain came, heavy and darkened an already dark day. I worked by the fire and Frank played tennis a good part of the day. In the late afternoon I started to arrange from flowers and greens. I went out into the rain at dusk and picked some holly and berries and rhododendron and pine branches, just a few, just a start, and made a centerpiece for the living room. Last night, my youngest, here briefly, complained: Why aren’t the lights on the tree? And so, I asked Frank, and he hung the lights for all of us, and even though we are in the midst of this pandemic, Christmas came into the house.