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Another cabin poem. Why would we ever leave? It’s here that my thoughts get the most hermit-y. I start dreaming of getting goats and angora rabbits and bees, and never leaving this gold mine of a valley. Alas, easy days don’t make for easy poems, I’m finding. No one would want to read about how many gorgeous moments I had today, talking walks with my daughters and watching hummingbirds and playing with butterflies. Gag.

So, it’s a blank page night. About every three or four days, I forget to write down the poemy thoughts of the day and wind up here, blank and petrified. It would be easy to pretent the wifi at this gridless mountain home was out, but I am not a cheat.

Sooooo. Solistice? That’s poetic as heck, I’m sure. This den? I could get used to spending my evenings in a hobbit hole like this.

Gotta write a fast poem so we can get to talking around the fire.


On this longest day I bend away from the season, feel the sun stand still, hot and still and stopped, and think hard about the angles along the star fault, about the helical circle, and about shadows. There’s still enough light here in the night, that we don’t need the fire. I duck and think about the other hemisphere, about declination and ascenscion, about bowing in and out of shadows. And about festivals of scattered beans and light hitting direct through the Gate of the Sun, about the stone lintel carved with bird heads, all creening at the Sun God. Don’t mourn me, ever, I’ve learned the geography of high places. I’ve gone to live with the hawks.

yeah, I’d go on but this computer is acting wonky and I think it might just give up on me. Plus, I have some board games to play with HP. Happy Saturday!