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It’s one hundred poem day! I’ve been looking forward to today all week, thinking surely I’d have the time and inspiration to really write a kickass poem, but now it is the end of a long week, and really, it’s just regular old Thursday. Really, the milestone to celebrate will be in 82.5 days from now, which will be halfway through the year. So, I guess after tonight I restart my celebration count down.

I suppose a little bit of a jig is in order, though, because a hundred poems in a hundred days is still a shitload of poems. Enough to swear about. What feels the best, I think, is that I haven’t caved to in thousand of reasons not to write a poem on any single one of the days. It still isn’t easy to do, but once I get Butt In Chair, I’m always glad I did.

Today I had a meeting with my five year-old’s future kindergarten teacher. KINDERGARTEN. The most important GARTEN. How is this my beautiful life? How did it it get to now from then. She is the most beautiful imp. It was a frustrating meeting because our tiny rural school doesn’t have the funding to have full-day kindergarten, and the school day won’t even be as long as the preschool she’s attended and conquered and dominated and ruled as Queen for two years now. She’s doing most of the stuff the teacher said she would learn next year (ahem. proud mama. ahem), and the schedule is a bitch for working parents. Seriously, Idaho? Get it together.

I think tonight, because I’m feeling celebratey about my rockin’ kid, and my hundred poems, I’m going to try to poem something celebratory. You know, life-affirming and rousing and all that. It might take me awhile, because I’m paranoid of the cheese line. You know, the line between making something soaring and making something that makes my stomach churn.

So, here’s me, being rah-rah-sis-boom-ba, about you who inspire me everyday:

Here’s to You

Here’s to you weavers, you hustlers of yarn, painters of fiber. Here’s to the workers of color on canvas, heavy-weight paper, wall, street, train. To you musicians and playwrights, lucky ducks,  a tip of the hat and shake of the hips to you.  Snaps to the photographers, to you collagers, and yarnhookers. Cheers to you blessed workers of wood, I genuflect to the dancers and gawk at you, performers. I’ll meet you there, alone, in the caves we’ve carved for our creation. On the deck of  something with sails, we will take up our instruments together. Up on topsails or summits of mountaintops, we can trace between the stars with our fingers. This practice is the most potent prescription, and the only cure. When the veins swell with thawing syrup, when the making comes up through the backs of our knees and bellies, spines and shoulders, and curls like tongues down through the hands to become something the ghosts have never seen before, that is when I kiss you.


Well, that did get a bit cheesy, but it was heartfelt and warming, so whatevs. I get to be cheesy. I’ve written a hundred freakin’ poems! I have a Kindergartener! Happy Thursday, my poem friends. Here’s to you.