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I’m great at writing tired poems. That is one thing I’ve learned so far this year. We got home late last night from kicking it with our new-old waldorf friends, and today all I wanted to do was kick it my jammies. So I did. Actually, we all did, here in the Grosencasa. We just chilled, and it was good. We had a bonfire, and s’mores, and it was nice, and quiet, and private. Here is a song we taught the daughters today:

That seems appropriate.

I got no new tidbits of poemworthy stuff today. Like, for instance, I didn’t learn that some millionaire in the 1930s tried to buy Grandma. I learned that yesterday. The only thing I learned today was that my daughters already know this:

Also, my girls apparently have an inherent ability to throw their hands in the air and swing their hips. Where did that come from? Okay, it came from me. But still, I didn’t think they would pick it up so quickly.

Poem time. A Place Poem, because here we are.

Clark Fork Again.

How can you, we, bear to look at these banks, these banks of the Clark Fork. How can we bear, possibly, the speculation, the speculum that will stretch the banks and deepen the bed, how can we possibly bear it, and is there a single thing or voice that will count against it? I wonder. Not since the black sharp bonfire gathered us have we felt such currents, and yet they falter, and grow weak under the passage of weekdays. Laboring always under the pass from sunrise to northern winds, do you really think you can widen this road, under all our feet, without us knowing?

As if we weren’t stopped for hours while you widened the shoulder? Did you really think we’d step aside, and bow?

**********************

Really? so many questions in this poem, and in life. Happy Saturday, readers of poems.

 

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