poem

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Walking home today, I saw that one of the neighborhood Little Libraries lay in pieces, apparently from a July 4th cherry bomb.

This was the first Little Library that I ever encountered–the little building a wonderful reproduction of the house behind it.

I told the owner (and library host) how sorry I was. She said, “It will be rebuilt.”

That’s what I mean by a good attitude.

She also mentioned that when she spoke with other people about it, they said they’d done similar things in their youth–putting firecrackers in mailboxes. (I was not one of those people–always way too much of a chickenshit.)

Looking at the photo now, I see above the sign’s question the title Presumed Innocent.

For a poem, David Whyte’s The House of Belonging.

 

She

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Imagine looking out over the port, where orange and white cranes rise like steel dinosaurs above a colorful assortment of shipping containers, the city all around, and the mountains further east.

I took the photo, but it’s on my phone downstairs (or I thought I took it and didn’t click hard enough?), and the booming is just enough to concern the cat, so I don’t want to disrupt him by making any more changes (or moving at all).

But that mountain maritime view is where I was writing, or trying to write, or writing about trying to write. (There’s always reading, so I read.)

Then I helped my daughter fix the food and enjoyed a dinner with family–good times.

For a poem, today I was reading Jenny Johnson’s book In Full Velvet, and here is Summoning the Body That Is Mine When I Shut My Eyes.

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Since restarting the Gratitude Journal, I’ve noticed that sometimes I’m grateful for things that I do–I’m actively pursuing what will fill me with thanks. For example, meeting my mom for lunch. Other times, gratitude is mixed with wonder when the universe just hands something down and points my head in that direction. Through this practice, I hoped to become more observant, more open to the world in all its textures—definitely helpful for writing and for being a human being. Here, I hoped to share those brief joys with you.

I guess that today I cheated—I went looking for that moment. Late in the afternoon, I really wanted to see ducklings, so I walked up the hill to the waterlily ponds. I hadn’t seen any ducklings there a few weeks ago, but today, I was the lucky duck!

ducklings and mother duck

At first I saw two or three, then five, then nine little fluffs zipping like motorboats among the lily pads. One decided to walk up the ramp, followed by mother duck, who watched closely as he stepped off the board and began to walk along the pool’s cement edge, maybe a foot above the water. Wait? What am I doing up here? After several quick looks and a few paces back and forth, he jumped and plopped down with a tiny splash.

For the poem today, not ducks, but sheep—Sally Fisher’s Here in the Psalm.

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Today, I’m grateful for the unexpected. Granted, sometimes it’s a kick in the pants or a punch in the gut—but other times, it’s wonderful.

This morning near the doorway to the office building, a squirrel, perched as though emerging from the mouth of the garbage can, nibbled a pizza crust. I was not quick enough to get a picture.

For today’s poem, we have The Balcony Collapses and I Become a Bird, by Rebecca Valley.

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Yes, water is a theme–and I’ve been always more grateful since our summer and winter of drought.

This morning, walking across the bridge, I saw the goslings again, and I hoped I would see ducklings. A little further down the path, I did! They were too tiny and too quick, zipping behind the log where the turtle sunned, and I could not catch my breath fast enough to get a photo.

At home in the garden, I checked up on the tomatoes and was amazed by their tiny fur. At first I thought it might be a mildew, or some kind of spit bug. Up close, just hundreds of fine bristles.

tomato plants

Later, Tom suggested we go to the Ivar’s barge for dinner. We found parking, and we found a table by the water. Plus fish and chips.

kayak on lake union

For your summer evening reading pleasure by the water or not, here is Petition, by K.A. Hayes.

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