Reach out

You think you are doing the right thing.  You buy the time that may save your life.  You move your wife away from her friends, and farther away from her children, to lessen your commutes, to be closer to your work, to be closer to nature. Everyday you see the beauty of nature all around you, but, at times, you hear the loneliness in your wife's voice and heart.

Then, the text from her friend.  One of the friends we dined with, and partied with.  The one who lost her sister to cancer.

Then, the text from her friend.

"I start chemo next week."

And there is nothing you can say.


DN

Part Time Poet

It’s not easy being a part time poet.  I live in a beautiful part of the country where the clouds, sunlight, trees, flowing river, animals, all lend themselves to moments, events, or thoughts that beg to be written down and shared.  The problem is, I am a part time poet.  I don’t always have the time to sit down, relax, and write.  I don’t have the time to get into the moment.

 

Just yesterday, it seemed to come to the forefront.  My wife and I were rushing out the door.  Yesterday was a cloudy, blustery, windy day.  I was leaving the house, turning out the lights, locking the doors, and, …leaving.  That very moment, a line crept into my head. A beautiful line, great words, great rythmn.  A perfect first line begging for a poignant poem.  This happens to me an awful lot.  I get these little seeds.  Sometimes they germinate for a day and grow into beautiful thoughts.  Sometimes they fall on unfertile ground and wither to a wasted potential.  

In this moment, I thought that sounds great.  I will write it in my head and it will be great.  I turned out the lights, grabbed my keys and jacket and walked out the front door.  As I turned to lock the front door, I started to think of all the things we needed to do that day.  Saturday chores, shopping, shoestores, grocery stores, my wife’s flu shot.  And there you have it.  That second, that moment, my great line was gone.

Truthfully, I didn’t remember losing the line until this morning.  The same weather conditions, lighting, all combined to make me remember the moment of loss.  I remember the moment.  I can’t remember one word that gave me that feeling.  It is gone.  

This morning I scribbled these lines on a note pad in the kitchen:

First line, lost and … gone.  Just before trekking out the door, a line not written, an emotion deeply felt. Chores, and journeys.  A day’s rest.  The emotion remembered. But not the line.

 

Such is the life of a part time poet.  I think I have an idea for another blog.  But I just don’t have the time right now. 

DN.