My notebook is full of the detritus of the day. A prompt I picked up someplace. Write something important to you. An order I overhear in a coffee shop: small half lemonade, half English breakfast tea. Snippets of overheard conversation. Man with guitar to woman: We had a Norwegian rat infestation. Mother at the French patisserie to her child: We’ll get you a hot dog later. Notes from reading. Ambrose Clark: “All I know is horses”–he chose to be buried next to his favorite horse. Georges Perec: “what matters is not the importance of what is observed, but its triviality.” Always a situating in time and space. I’ve come late to the coffee shop after fitful sleep. I’ve come late and the quiet I need for writing is gone. Neighborhood almost silent this morning. A hint of pink sunrise. Always writing about writing. Trying to write a few lines to keep my hand nimble. The hand stays loose with letter writing, but the mind isn’t collecting. I haven’t been writing, and I feel untethered, unrooted.
white paper and pen
waiting for words’ arrival
pages start to fill
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Aimee Nezhukumatathil has a lovely essay about the haibun, a form that combines a brief prose poem with a haiku. The inspiration for this haibun came from Trina’s slice, Writer’s Notebook Records.
For my National Poetry Project, I’m playing along with the poetry calendar created by Margaret and Molly.
the dirigible plum 
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