Wood smoke is so primitive, it is embedded in the DNA. Urban children has long since lost the campfire experience as evidenced during one campfire party we attended at a school in Santa Cruz. Unfolded metal hangers were passed out to the children and the lack of spacial awareness of these kids made for a harrowing experience of potentially poked eyes and impaled faces. It was nuts! As for experiencing wood smoke, it seemed beyond their notice. This is truly a sad poem, Fran, on so many levels. We heated our houses with wood for 25 years, yet our daughter could never learn how to set and light a fire. Her generation can't live without an app or a button to push. (Okay, off my soapbox.)
I once had a massage in front of a roaring fire. I’ll never forget that experience. Fire is so elemental, and have it legislated out of our existence is hard.
The "edges" poem is so evocative, it pulls memories or scenarios for the future out of my thoughts to distract me. It is a poem to be read slowly so as not to miss one evocative word.
I really love the poignant discussion of and poem about edges, Fran. Really beautiful. The pink purse! Oh my! I'm so sorry you didn't even get a photo, but I am even more sorry that you have now lost your bag.... all the words in the journal.... the hassle of the lost wallet. I'm really sorry this happened, and there is irony on the heels of losing the smaller bag recently and having it so generously returned. I hope this bag, too, finds its way back to you.
Wood smoke is so primitive, it is embedded in the DNA. Urban children has long since lost the campfire experience as evidenced during one campfire party we attended at a school in Santa Cruz. Unfolded metal hangers were passed out to the children and the lack of spacial awareness of these kids made for a harrowing experience of potentially poked eyes and impaled faces. It was nuts! As for experiencing wood smoke, it seemed beyond their notice. This is truly a sad poem, Fran, on so many levels. We heated our houses with wood for 25 years, yet our daughter could never learn how to set and light a fire. Her generation can't live without an app or a button to push. (Okay, off my soapbox.)
I once had a massage in front of a roaring fire. I’ll never forget that experience. Fire is so elemental, and have it legislated out of our existence is hard.
The "edges" poem is so evocative, it pulls memories or scenarios for the future out of my thoughts to distract me. It is a poem to be read slowly so as not to miss one evocative word.
Thank you. I don’t know where these poems come from. I think I channel them. I just put my pen on paper and the words come out.
This is one of my favorite poems, so thank you for liking it.
I really love the poignant discussion of and poem about edges, Fran. Really beautiful. The pink purse! Oh my! I'm so sorry you didn't even get a photo, but I am even more sorry that you have now lost your bag.... all the words in the journal.... the hassle of the lost wallet. I'm really sorry this happened, and there is irony on the heels of losing the smaller bag recently and having it so generously returned. I hope this bag, too, finds its way back to you.
Amy, I won’t be getting that bag back. It's been days and I haven’t heard a thing.
Curiously, I don't think I'm going to miss the ideas in that journal. I have so many others, and new ones are always tapping me on the shoulder.