Day 9:

Waiting. I took my trail weary legs on a quick run before accompanying Frank to the hospital to get a magic screw put in his head so he'll be able to hear out of both of his ears once again. All is well on that front.  The patient is groggy, but doesn't think he is.  We're enjoying answering the same questions over and over, and the girls are pretty sure we should remove his facebook posting capabilities for the near future.

To keep me company while I waited, I took my favorite edition of Robert Frost poems, which used to belong to someone named Smith, which also happens to be the name of our childhood cat, a stately Siamese who had the misfortune of living with two little girls who loved to dress her up in doll clothes.  Smith no doubt returned the favor every time she proudly dropped still-living snakes at our feet, eliciting squeals of terror, which brought forth David Campbell the savior, who swooped in to hook the snake on his stick and carry it off to the greener pastures of the storm drain. 

For the past year or so I've been writing uncomplicated little starts of poems in a notebook, beginnings of ideas that I'm not quite sure what to do with.  About our neighbors' beloved hawthorn tree and whether anyone remembers how important it was to him since he died and his wife moved away... about middle-aged women from work making crafts on a Saturday night... about our cat acting as our sentry and protector from the tall balance beam of the fence... about a special fall leaf slipping from the pages of a book weeks after I found it.... Some of it's kind of sad.

Some poetry I love.  Some poetry I could do without.  I've never really studied it, so I have no idea what I'm doing, which makes it difficult to determine what has possibility and what's sentimental baloney best suited for the shredder.  Just to be daring, here's the last one I wrote.  Most definitely not a masterpiece.  But I kind of like it. Maybe that's all that really matters.

NEW YEAR'S DAY

The china languishes
in a stack
on the sideboard
reminding those who pass
of glowing
winter evenings.

In the garden
I pull out the remains
of last year's glory
making room
for fresh dreams
of beauty to come.