Amy says: During our writing group (which has been meeting for 2 1/2 years and will be SORELY missed) last week, Julie offered a prompt from the poem “Fire” by Robin Chapman. We choose a word, phrase, or line as our jumping off point. I chose the word fleeing.
Doors closing, keys jangling
jittery we are pushing forward anyway into
landscapes we know well
juxtaposed with fresh green horizons tempted
by freedom and frivolity we shove
fear to the side and then bend
over steering wheel bend
over handlebars dig
into rock, sand, silt
some approximation of timelessness
sun rising and setting
setting and rising over our breath, days marked
by cups of coffee and fireflies
we look forward to the poetry of purple skies
the strumming of a single guitar endless
openings and offerings the yawning thrill of yes.
. . . . .
I was trying to hone in on one word but instead found myself drifting to the phrase “the weed-work of the day.” Here’s where it took me:
the weed-work of the day
The loose cap on the bottle of coconut creamer, dishwasher yawned open, knife smeared with peanut butter, banana skin holding the last coin of fruit, the dining room table, always the dining room table, receipts from the post office, yellow sticky pads, an empty envelope with a return address, a scatter of stamps, a bowl of tomatoes under which a small pool of liquid has gathered, hammer on the kitchen kiosk, loose batteries, a tube of caulk, a half-drunk glass of seltzer flavored with pomelo and pineapple, and now, now, the book shelf emptied of books and instead bearing the collections of one-of-these-is-not-like-the-other, Evan’s ceramic coffee cup bearing his young handwriting, the box the router came in, a pamphlet for the grill, a feather, a wooden disk painted with the word “love,” a lunch box circa 1979, a card deck called “Forty-Nine Questions, a shell painted a storybook ocean blue, Pixie’s antlers, Elinor’s Scrabble display, a storage unit a half a mile away.