tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91677084741906494792024-03-19T05:16:39.768-07:00Dimples on a ThimbleA collection of minutia, poems & random thoughts...gaynellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794563446212038952noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9167708474190649479.post-11305214715304773902012-04-07T06:06:00.001-07:002012-04-07T06:07:25.697-07:00The Beaters--NaPo Poem, April 6th<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><strong>The Beaters</strong><br />
<br />
It only took a moment—most<br />
things of this nature do. <br />
I had moved aside to switch the laundry—<br />
basket already-dried linens, fluff <br />
the newly-laundered towels.<br />
<br />
Only eight feet between us, four steps, <br />
I left her leaning against the counter, <br />
safe on the kitchen stool. Every precaution<br />
had been taken, the mixer unplugged,<br />
even put away, she had only<br />
the beaters, a spatula, the bowl. <br />
<br />
My intent was for her to taste the frosting,<br />
lick a pink tongue over<br />
the chromed whisks, retrieve <br />
some sweet remnants. It’s a kind of unofficial ritual, <br />
a rite of passage I had engaged in myself.<br />
<br />
But the situation proved too tempting—<br />
the bowl’s heaping measured proved far too great.<br />
I turned to find her head inside it, <br />
her shirt, face and hair a chocolaty mess. Neglected<br />
beaters lay discarded, their meager offerings <br />
still intact.</div>gaynellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794563446212038952noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9167708474190649479.post-65820490252528484252012-04-06T11:33:00.001-07:002012-04-06T20:54:13.163-07:00The Rapture, NaPo Poem, April 5th<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><strong>The Rapture</strong><br />
<br />
It takes you by surprise,<br />
the pale, nearly perfect circle<br />
of feathers on the path.<br />
It’s as if a mourning dove<br />
unzipped his drab jacket,<br />
let it drop about his knees<br />
and then stepped aside<br />
leaving it to lay among leaves<br />
and teeny twigs, beside the hoove <br />
impressions punched<br />
into soft ground by deer<br />
in trek to the river.<br />
<br />
No blood, no bone—just powder-down<br />
pinwheel-patterned and fluttering<br />
ever so slightly in the small wind<br />
that winds around the basswood.<br />
<br />
You know he was the victim of a hawk.<br />
Still, you can’t help but pause<br />
and puzzle over this miniature tragedy—<br />
the perfect act of a mighty, winged god<br />
swooping down in the end of days<br />
to retrieve one recalcitrate soul.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
.</div>gaynellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794563446212038952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9167708474190649479.post-88575719603610875582012-04-05T08:31:00.003-07:002012-04-06T11:35:52.452-07:00Poetry-schmoetry--NaPo draft, April 4<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><strong>Poetry-schmoetry</strong><br />
<br />
Perhaps I should slice a vein, let it<br />
pour red and sticky sweet onto the carpet, <br />
allow it to puddle and darken. <br />
We can sit in our blue upholstered chairs<br />
by the window, watch sluggish rivulets<br />
cascading down. But an artery, you suggest,<br />
would spark an instant Jackson Pollack—<br />
sprayed toward the walls, Pointillism enjoys<br />
an immediate revival preview. “So, what<br />
is art to you, dear?” you inquire. “An opportunity<br />
to discover it within ourselves,” I reply,<br />
spreading a crimson Matise along the baseboard<br />
<br />
</div>gaynellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794563446212038952noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9167708474190649479.post-3969022056837463092012-04-05T08:21:00.001-07:002012-04-05T08:34:39.914-07:00Mistress Brigid's Tea Party--NaPo Poem, April 3<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Mistress Brigid’s Tea Party<br />
She sits as a pink cloud upon the carpet, <br />
princess tulle and organza spilling<br />
cirrocumulus across the floor.<br />
<br />
Her hands are pale petals, <br />
aloft for a moment then settling onto <br />
diminutive teacups, over every saucer—<br />
mini marshmallows as sugar, <br />
animal crackers as cake.<br />
<br />
A faux satin gown, her sequined tiara, <br />
each guest—Buster Bear, Wonky Rabbit, <br />
Bitsy Baby Anne-- is royally greeted,<br />
offered liberal libations of the imaginary kind.<br />
<br />
The teapot (florid pink and plum, <br />
of course) nestles as a centerpiece<br />
in this most fanciful affair, the discourse, <br />
though lop-sided, runs genial—“Do you need<br />
a ‘poon, Mister Rabbit? Uh-oh! <br />
More crwackers, Baby Anne?”<br />
<br />
Such a mystical concordance must be viewed<br />
from the margins, to move into its center <br />
would dispel all the charm. She touches <br />
enchantment where corduroy rabbits <br />
transform into kings, where overstuffed bears<br />
are a realm’s valiant lords. <br />
<br />
We adults would be the worst interlopers,<br />
this world she now visits long-removed <br />
from our own.<br />
</div>gaynellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794563446212038952noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9167708474190649479.post-90568508060885413342012-04-02T04:00:00.002-07:002012-04-02T04:00:58.968-07:00Smells Like Rain, NaPo April 2 Draft<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><h1 style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Smells Like Rain</span></h1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I’ve been around long enough to recognize </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">signs of an impending squall. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">When wind rattles through the upper branches </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">of the birch trees, </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">when it plucks at their leafy aprons </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">like a bashful toddler child,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">and sycamores kick their emerald crinolines, </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">lift usually subdued voices in raucous animation,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">it’s a sure bet a storm approaches.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I can read momentous omens</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">from tell-tale-green tornado skies, forecast</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">gully-washers from the immaculate glow</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">of burgeoning thunderhead clouds.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">My basement is a refuge of candles,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">of matchbooks, flashlights and jars. Stocked </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">with bottled water, a transistor radio, </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I’ve learned to be prepared, how to ride</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">the tide, how, when on fire, to stop, drop and roll.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">So, when you hover near my office door, boy, </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">know that I’ve raised two sons already, </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">that I have younger brothers, a zillion nephews, and I know </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">by the way your cheeks burn, the hesitant tone</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">of your stammer, your eyes darting every direction</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">but mine, that there’s a storm in the making.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Let’s make it easy now, shall we?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Just stop fidgeting, Son, and spill.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div></div>gaynellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794563446212038952noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9167708474190649479.post-23900105798241349332012-04-02T03:59:00.002-07:002012-04-02T03:59:57.834-07:00Morning Walk, NaPo April 1 Draft<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><h1 style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Morning Walk</span></h1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Today is newly born, and even so, </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">the dewy breath of dawn dissipates.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Gravel groans beneath my feet, </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">the sharp stones coughing white dust</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">with every step.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Hot— the sun hauls its orange glare </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">through the lower branches</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">of the cottonwoods.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Already, I hunker </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">in the intermittent shade of their sanctuaries,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">already my sleeveless blouse tacks</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">fabric to my back.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">You would entreat a day like today, allow</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">sweet tea and a table fan to carve</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">the comforts of oasis from the porch swing, </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">jest about us being June bugs</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">dancing on a griddle.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">But you died and the wind has died—</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">only the lax memory of a breeze</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">nods through the timothy</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">as dragonflies whir on their way</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">to the melodious chirp of the creek,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">their wings iridescent stained glass</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">and as fragile.</div></div>gaynellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794563446212038952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9167708474190649479.post-28867660923003231102011-01-01T20:00:00.001-08:002011-01-01T20:00:33.395-08:00<a href="http://www.blogger.com/%3Ca%20href=%22http://ariverofstones.blogspot.com/%22%3E%3Cimg%20src=%22http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ahbbkOEBQhQ/TQ4DW5_f0BI/AAAAAAAABuM/7fHAdCzjB9k/S250/inbadgeone.jpg%22%20/%3E%3C/a%3E">a river of stones</a>gaynellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794563446212038952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9167708474190649479.post-73844992934828970742010-07-10T18:38:00.000-07:002010-07-10T18:38:40.052-07:00PeculiaritiesWe had another good soaking rain yesterday. No complaints, the gardens needed it. Pulling weeds after days of intense heat has been like plowing through concrete. And it was a soft, easy rain. No thunder or lightning, just a steady patter on the walkway and drive. Milder temps today, too, (mid-80's) although July in Indiana is famous for it's humidity. No disappointment there. <br />
<br />
Tobey and I went for a walk this morning and the air felt as if it had already wrapped around us. We clung to the shady side of the road as much as we could, our shadows tucked tightly beneath us when we breached stretches of sun.<br />
<br />
Funny thing about shadows, they change with the seasons. I don't know if science bears this out, but I've noticed them changing since I was a kid. They grow a bit longer around mid-September and in October, it almost seems as if they have a flavor-- sort of a spicy peppercorn taste.<br />
<br />
By December, the shadows are long and thin and blue. They resemble frostbit fingers and one gets a sense of numbness from them. This is especially noticeable around the Solstice and very defined when there's snow on the ground. <br />
<br />
Another thing I started noticing as a kid is the number of days near or below zero degrees is in direct proportion to the number of days near or above 100 degrees. As silly as it seems, I always thought it was the Universe's way of balancing things out. <br />
<br />
I found myself longing for those long September shadows this morning. Not that I'm in a hurry to rush through summer-- just had a small wave of nostalgia tinged with the taste of peppercorn.gaynellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794563446212038952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9167708474190649479.post-7633482195872582402010-07-03T06:56:00.000-07:002010-07-03T07:27:12.319-07:00A Spider Sat Down Besider HerHubby, upon leaving the bathroom: "Is there a reason your loofah is outside the shower and on the floor?"<br />
Me, in my low and logical voice" "I used it to save a spider."<br />
Hubby, in his married 30 years, no explanations needed voice: "Oh."<br />
<br />
I don't kill bugs. My husband knows it, our kids know it, most of our family and friends know it. In fact, I actually go out of my way to save bugs. <br />
<br />
Three days ago, before cleaning the bathtub, I chased a spider around with a tissue for five minutes just so I wouldn't accidentally swoosh it down the drain. Normally, I try to get the little buggers to climb onto a piece of paper or folded towel, but this fella was having none of that. I carefully caught him in a cup of tissue and then set him free to wander outside.<br />
<br />
A little extreme you think? Perhaps. But do we get crushed by a giant ogre whenever we get lost?<br />
<br />
Painting the fence last week was horrible. Not because of the 90 degree heat or 85% humidity, but because little critters kept hopping into the paint tray!! Suicide by whitewash! Devastating to watch! And I was complicit..........<br />
<br />
I accidentally squished a Daddy <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">Longlegs</span> recently, moving some wood in the garden. The guilt <em>still </em>lingers.<br />
<br />
When my daughter was in fourth grade, part of her science grade was contingent upon submitting a bug collection. (<span class="goog-spellcheck-word">OMG</span>) Yes, I'm the wacky mother who wrote a note asking she be excused from the assignment because of my beliefs. Her teacher was very understanding. She requested my daughter do a one page report on ten different bugs. I guarantee <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">Stac</span> learned more about bugs by doing those reports than if she had hunted the poor creatures down and skewered their bodies to cardboard.<br />
<br />
Three years later, when my son had the same teacher and the same assignment came home, a note was clipped to it. "I remember. Kevin can do the reports." <br />
<br />
I don't know if my kids kill bugs now. They're all adults with homes of their own. They follow their own consciences. I do know they are lovely and caring people. I hope, hope that still extends to bugs.<br />
<br />
PS: <em>Okay, in full disclosure, I do kill mosquitoes and I put flea & tick medicine on the cat and dog. There's an assault rational at work in those instances. </em>gaynellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794563446212038952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9167708474190649479.post-50194872734009447062010-06-29T11:36:00.000-07:002010-06-29T11:36:06.753-07:00Summer LightningMy mother believed summer lightning always helped her gardens grow. It's the electricity in the air as much as the rain, she'd say. My guess is, she was right. We've had a 'passel' of summer storms this month-- over a foot of rain fell on Shelby County, all accompanied by incredible thunder and lightning displays. <br />
<br />
Windows rattled, downspouts gushed and more than a few small limbs hit the roof.... Tobey has established a permanent address under our bed....<br />
<br />
and my sweetcorn stands a towering 7 feet, full of tassels. The tomatoes and squash are doing much the same, not as tall, of course, but full of young fruit and blooms.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, my peas have drowned out. The beans aren't fairing much better but may yet rally. Both are planted in a low 'dip' and had to endure some standing water. I've heard several farmers had to re-plant, a few planted three or more times, so I thought 'what the hay' and just re-planted myself. <br />
<br />
This has definitely been unusual weather for June-- high temps during the day, thunder storms at night,<br />
and once again, I've learned not to count my chickens. All those garden-fresh peas and beans I had hoped to put up for winter may come from our farmer's market after all. <br />
<br />
This morning, Tobey crept from under the bed. It's in the mid-70's, the sky is clear and blue and I've discovered weeds favor lightning as well. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
gaynellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794563446212038952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9167708474190649479.post-91917613916351751102010-06-23T21:01:00.000-07:002010-06-23T21:01:47.521-07:00The Mead MoonSummer Solstice has come and gone and Missy Moon has climbed high enough tonight to show us her lacy petticoat. The "Mead Moon", or honey moon has turned full for lovers. Shakespeare wrote of this midsummer's night and I'd bet money Mab and her crew are dancing the light away.<br />
<br />
I've always loved the Solstice-- summer or winter. Just the word 'solstice' conjures antiquity, a time when we were so interconnected with nature, so intricately woven, rituals celebrated the effects. However, the summer solstice is my favorite even though it's somewhat bittersweet. It marks the tipping point for our longer days to toggle back toward winter, when the sun's arc swings low and away and we ride this big blue marble into woolly sweaters and the evening star arriving at 5:30pm. Maybe it's just the kid in me, b<span class="goog-spellcheck-word">ut</span> there's just something magical about considering the 'longest day of the year', something mystical about the sun going down so close to bedtime. <br />
<br />
For now, though, that sweet, full moon drips its honeyed light into the woods and lightning bugs are playing 'slips' in the garden. We have weeks and weeks of daylight and an equinox smack in the middle to soften the arctic blow. gaynellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794563446212038952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9167708474190649479.post-79595117241732967742010-06-20T10:24:00.000-07:002010-06-20T16:32:15.178-07:00A Lovely, Albiet Unwelcomed Visitor<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAdVwVqqDtqD2XXvMkcp83OqezBbK4a3CP3I9Y3LQIW9wjX6-GFZPGL-AhZfiFrk9Z_h6fFxbL6mKBpigdLJevykrk1gsVgCxRb-AdXM5zE52Y40WPSxTEt6neMyMEg7YGczSp3Pg3Z-E2/s1600/japbeetle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" qu="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAdVwVqqDtqD2XXvMkcp83OqezBbK4a3CP3I9Y3LQIW9wjX6-GFZPGL-AhZfiFrk9Z_h6fFxbL6mKBpigdLJevykrk1gsVgCxRb-AdXM5zE52Y40WPSxTEt6neMyMEg7YGczSp3Pg3Z-E2/s200/japbeetle.jpg" width="171" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Well, it's late June and they have arrived, those iridescent copper-over-emerald cloisonne pests are visiting the gardens in <em>droves!</em></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">It seems their culinary tastes have taken a more cosmopolitian turn over the past year. They have developed a very keen liking to my Genovese Basil-- completely ignoring the Lemon, Cinnamon & Red Ruben varieties. They've chewed through enough of one plant to make themselves a sizable amount of pesto....the buggers!!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Not only is my basil one of their culinary delights, but one of my crabapple trees seems to have been touted as the perfect light dessert on these hot summer days! The poor thing is half skeletonized! </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Last week, CBS Sunday Morning profiled an artist whose medium of choice was insects, and most especially colorful beetles. His creations were very exotic and absolutely gorgeous! He made the comment he thought his studio might look like "God's Living Room" with elements from all creation skillfully arranged, mounted and displayed under glass. It was facinating! </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">I wish I had his studio's contact information. I'd make him a really sweet deal on some drop dead gorgeous little buggers......er...bugs.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span>gaynellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794563446212038952noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9167708474190649479.post-70622819456133206392010-06-19T09:07:00.000-07:002010-06-19T19:53:52.115-07:00The Language of MarriageAfter 30 yrs of marital bliss, I think couples develop their own specific idioms. For example, when recent storms caused us to track more of the great outdoors in, my husband observed "oh, looks like we need to mop" which was immediately interpreted with a 2nd person POV.<br />
<br />
And just so no impressions of chauvinism are left afoot, I responded, "Yes Dear, I see we do. We also need to clear away all those limbs that were knocked down and the cat left us a 'present' on the front porch. We need to clear that away, also."gaynellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794563446212038952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9167708474190649479.post-73254502882377380452010-06-18T20:16:00.000-07:002010-06-18T20:26:55.180-07:00Garden EarthYesterday evening, I was working in my garden-- pulled weeds, planted a bit more in hopes of a late-season greenbean harvest, and I noticed the soil was incredibly warm. I guess maybe it's never registered in my frontal lobe before just how warm the ground becomes under the sun all day. Of course, rationally, I know sun-warmed soil = growing plants but it has never been a conscious experience, never an 'in the now' moment. Have to tell ya, I just stood there for a bit with a pile of warm earth in my palm totally smitten. Yes, I'm sure there's a pill for what ails me regarding this, but I'm going to ignore it for a while...<br /><br />Have a good one.....gaynellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794563446212038952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9167708474190649479.post-10055743041097282772010-05-06T09:35:00.001-07:002010-05-06T09:38:42.832-07:00Summer's HarbingerSaw my first lightning bug last night, small yellow brightness blinking off and on in the dark pines. It looked like a small door opening and closing into a room filled with light.gaynellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794563446212038952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9167708474190649479.post-60095752236699517472010-05-02T12:47:00.001-07:002010-05-02T12:54:25.846-07:00Brave New WorldOne would think, the way I love to yammer on about all things interesting or not, that blogging would come as easily as breathing. Perhaps it will, however, for today this experience is a new world and this is my maiden post.<br /><br />What a sorry little post it is, too. But it's a rainy Sunday afternoon and I'm fresh off the tilt-a-whirl of NaPoWriMo which means I've been writing a poem a day for the past 30 days.....uhhh.....let's call them 'first drafts', shall we? The things I've cranked out for the past 30 days barely resemble poems. Any-who, the toes are wet, they've now been properly dipped into the blogging pool and I'm off to change my socks.<br /><br />Catch ya later!gaynellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06794563446212038952noreply@blogger.com0