No poem to speak of

I know I missed a couple poem expounding days but I really don't care. I have been reading some poems but I don't have the time or energy to go the distance with any of them. And I still have those eight Dickinson poems I am leaning on so I don't feel so far behind. In all actuality I am just pleased to be reading poetry again. I haven't even thought in these sorts of critical ways in years.

the stretching is great and it reminds me I need to get back into yoga.

Melissa and I discussed what our mornings should look like from this point on. Or I suppose from the point last night on. There are a multitude of tiny oases in the form of quaint parks mere walking minutes from our apartment. We are going to utilize these weekly and in the morning do something extravagantly creative. Or perhaps modestly creative.

We used to have write-nights and it was terrific. That fell to the wayside far too quickly. But this, this is going to be different. Right? Right.

brandon

in the same house

I had grand plans/illusions to drive to a semi-remote place with trees and perhaps a bit of grass poking through the snow. I would arrive around five o'clock slip into the back of my car where I have the seat down and turn on NPR because at five o'clock they played an episode of American Routes featuring John Prine. John Prine always reminds me of my dad. Not necessarily the man's particulars but my father introduced me to his music and I was stymied by my lack of knowledge of someone who was so terrific and had been directly under my nose, living in the same house even (his records anyway). Perhaps that is actually the similarity I find between my dad and John. I remember telling one of my roommates in college how fascinated I was with my dad. I was going to write him a letter while I listened to the radio show. I will write him later this week.

brandonpiercegeary