We ran-- hoping, loping, leaping-- grieving-- up Happiness Ridge. Its summit proved small, merely step one of many.
Sometimes, poetry is not good, rejuvenating long-dead memories when one graded The Poetry Assignment as written by thirteen-year-olds. Sometimes, the poet shoots invisible needles of meaning, millions of them, ripping, zipping through me, nailing me to where I sit.
[once again grabbed by the poetry of James G. Piatt as featured on Ephemeral Elegies]
The photo above represents a good deal of my December. I am rededicating myself to getting stuff up here.
Today is today.
Tomorrow is tomorrow.
Every day is happy new year!
Assess today, try harder tomorrow. Make your resolutions every day… every minute. Resolutions annually have little impact six months from now. Every moment is now, every day is today, every future is “the new year”. It’s great to usher out an arbitrary measurement of time, but really folks: let’s focus on where we really are!
I have been ‘gestating’ a piece more than two months in the making. A friend of mine quoted an author to a small group of us in email, which prompted my reaction, “why do we like what we like?” a question which has tormented me for nearly 20 years. This writing has begun, and I am reasonably certain Part One will appear prior to the end of the year. Like the mother above in the photo, when the egg hatches is not a certain, well-timed thing.