We didn’t camp tonight, so I get to cabin poem again. I couldn’t bring myself to attempt leaving this place that grounds me. Clearly I was in need of grounding. I’m in the den of books. Most of my life I would’ve typed this on a typerwriter or an Apple IIE. The titles in front of me are Fathers and Sons, Cancer Ward, The Government Inspector, and the Brother’s Karamazo, at least those are the ones that aren’t shadowed out.
I wrote a poem today, on paper, but it was stupid romantic and the names of wildflowers in it, and there was stuff about clouds…seriously, blaggggghhhhh. I don’t know that I have anything deeper than that, though, because I’m busy with the feels. Why is it that I feel ore comfortable poeming about the mother/daughter relationship when poeming about mom, than I do when poeming about my own daughter? I suspect it because I don’t want to be cheesy. But, as I’ve learned, sometimes the cheese just happens.
I did submerse my feet and head in very, very cold water, fast mmountain water, today, and that was good. I’m just goint to poem the stupid romantic poem and then go play Scrab with HP, because HERE.
It’s nearer to the solstice than we would like, the light in its long game. A week here and she’s learned your trillium mythology, mixed in with the wild strawberries, bluebells, and forget-me-nots, she takes you at your word when you say life takes seven years to grow back. To this day I have never picked one and put it where it belongs, behind the ear, because seven years is a longn time. She’ll never do it either. This life is a teaching, teaching her how many miles apart are the clouds, how great the distance between the ones that move across the film and the ones that stay still, teaching how many miles apart are the gods and their stories and us. When she asks if the veins in the leaves and the clear wings are the same as the ones in the rocks, I say no, no, those are are like the creases on the paper map spread across the dash that tells us how to get up higher on overgrown roads. These trillium are our birthright, borne down deep and lasting in new growing patches, this is the undergrowth beneath our feet.
A cabin poem. Happy Friday, my friends. Hugs to you.