Photo by Brocken Inaglory
Colder out there today. Winter in western Oregon. The light becomes lyrical. I go out to empty the woodstove ashes in the compost and there’s dew illuminating every strand, the entire pattern of a few spider webs between the chicken wire fence and the cedar boughs of an old holiday wreath we hung on the fence post last year. Things sparkly, bright, pretty. And I can see mist (the fog I guess) lifting away from a tree trunk where the warm rays of sunlight hit the lichen that year-round covers the bark. If I didn’t need to eat lunch and feel the pressure of a few shoulds — I should rake more leaves, should go for a power walk — then maybe I’d let myself enjoy the poetry of this moment. Or maybe this is enjoyment, typing these words as a too-green wedge of Douglas fir makes popping sounds from the woodstove, like static on a worn LP. Even a few birds are back at the feeder. What a little sunshine will do.
Interests: Reading, writing, not arithmetic. The art and craft of poetry. Photography. Vegetable and flower gardening especially heirloom bulbs and dahlias. Movies in real theatres. Theatre on real stages. Art in real galleries. Crossword puzzles and, of course, Wordle. Singer-songwriters like Aimee Mann and Patti Griffin. All kinds of music especially 1930s jazz. Venice, Italy! The Dude abides.
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