What’s sticking with me post-hike is what’s left: the tracks, the station and a few poles presumably for electricity. It has me thinking about how we’re connected to one another and to wilderness and how being connected to one another is its own magnificent — and treacherous — wilderness.
On my fridge, I have a photo of my son from 13 or 14 years ago holding a baby chick. He’s seated in a chicken coop, cupped hands like a nest. Small as he is, the chick is even smaller. I read on his face a budding capacity for wonder and gratitude. This creature is so precious, and I have the chance to hold it. *I* do. *Me.*
And so I make toast. But not just any toast. It’s the omg-do-you-know-what-would-taste-so-good-right-now-?! toast, also known in my family as “pan toast.” Medium hot skillet. Melted butter. Bread. It’s better than toaster toast because the bread stays moist on the inside. It melts in your mouth. Pan toast is not Pinterest-worthy. It’s not Instagrammable. But it’s everything you ever need: comfort.
I don’t usually write satirical poems, but VP Pence’s unwillingness to have lunch alone with a woman who is not his wife called for it. It’s hard not to lampoon this administration.
I love seeing how other writers get shit done, and so maybe someone out there wants a peek inside my brain. (WARNING: It’s not a very hospitable planet, and you’ll have to provide your own snacks.)
Remember the girl I said I’d found? The poet-warrior? She refused to stick around. Let’s call it “the remains of winter.” Let’s call it “Trump administration.” Let’s call it #$%?!@*!!
I am using “practice” in the sense that one has a practice because a specific kind of activity is regular and frequent (ideally daily). In other words: consistent, engaged and present with.