Cleaning

 During the traditional pause between summer and the beginning of the school year, I've found the time and energy to do little projects around the house, something I've always been excellent at putting off nearly indefinitely. My current focus is my desk drawer, which I've discovered contains nearly every ballpoint pen ever created. If you've lost one, it's probably because it's in my desk drawer. It's like the theory that lost dryer socks end up in a garage in Wisconsin. Improbable, but then again, who knows? None of this changes the fact that my drawer is full to bursting with pens. 

I also found some odd bits of poetry I wrote during last year's (?) in-service at work. I can't remember the stated goal of the exercise now, other than the usual reflection-based things that teachers often do, and the idea that poetry and outdoor school really do go hand in hand. For instance, I've seen (and somewhere back in the dim recesses of time, posted on this blog) examples of writing by 10-year-olds that in a just universe really should have been published in a more permanent format. 

The following bit of poetry was written in sub-optimal conditions and somewhat under duress. This is because I like to write when I'm alone, not when I'm at work surrounded by people and doing it as some sort of group exercise. Still, I transcribe it here so I can preserve it and recycle the piece of paper it was written on. Pretty freeform and tossing out the rulebook when it comes to meter and rhyme, but when it comes to expression, rules are for fools. 

I notice a gentle breeze playing with the parched leaves

I wonder whether the trees will weather the drought

For the liquid of life they've gone too long without

It reminds me of connections to this world that we share

And the journey of life as we struggle to get somewhere

This somewhere and somehow our open-ended future

Made possible by these connections by wheels within wheels ever spinning

I notice the harsh call of a jay

And a truck that ceased idling

A plane overhead

A goldfinch, distant sighing

Tire crunch of gravel

The twitter of a junco

Chickadees in the cones

Urgent business in the forest

A second bit of writing is shoehorned into the margins, almost as if blank space is somehow offensive, but really because using a second piece of paper would be a waste. It's a peek into what motives me.

The first taste of coffee is before contact with the tongue

Being when and where I am I wouldn't have it otherwise

The first onset of evening and the first hint of dawn

The shift of seasons and all that they promise

Endless epiphanies inspired

A breeze picking up

Subtle changes promise

The endless, frenzied darting of the insects

Finding the hidden

Noticing the unnoticed

Making the connection binding us all

Anticipation propels me around each corner

Each corner beckons

Hiding a mystery

Generally speaking, the first poem is rooted in the present, and the second one is rooted in the future in that it's all about anticipation and change, although change on a cyclical or seasonal level. Anticipation drives me.

Written/transcribed to the tune of No Sun Rises "Ascent/Decay" and Henry Derek Elis "Don't Look"