Yes, yes, this is a day late, but I didn’t care to combine days a third time so there will be two posts today. I didn’t get around to writing yesterday and I’m honestly impressed by the people who have, or at least find, the time to write, and write well, every single day. I’ve been doing this in April and November every year for five years now and I always end up postponing at least once. But anyway…

“Today” is a quick thought piece inspired by some yardwork I did this morning: replanting a couple of nandina bushes, planting a basil I bought last weekend (it is already full and bushy; I’m hoping the animals leave it alone so I can make pesto this summer), and just sitting out in the nice breeze enjoying the interplay of shade and sun under the pine tree. I’m very grateful to have a backyard like this.

I involved the prompt by quoting a small bit of Otis Redding because when I’m at peace like this, that song always pops into my head. I’m not “driving in a car” in the poem’s context, but I didn’t want to be.

Poem prompt: “Today’s resource is a virtual visit to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. Gardner, who died in 1924, was a devoted and very wealthy art collector who built a Venetian-style palace (in Boston) to house her treasures. The museum building is beautiful and well known for its gorgeous courtyard. But the Gardner is also well known for having been the unfortunate site of one of the greatest – and still unsolved – art heists of all time. If you can figure out whodunnit, there might be $10 million in it for you.

And now for today’s (optional) prompt. Like our villanelle prompt from a week ago, this prompt plays around with song lyrics, but in a very specific context – singing while riding in a car. Take a look at Ellen Bass’s poem, ‘You’re the Top.’ Now, craft your own poem that recounts an experience of driving/riding and singing, incorporating a song lyric.”

Backyard Journal at 78 Degrees Fahrenheit

Brushing leaves of indica azalea 
and fire power nandina 
wave in the rush of the Fates’ wind, 
bringing southern Aeolian breath 
to higher latitudes. 

Sittin’ on the dock of the bay 
wastin’ time 
I sing as I sit on the bench of the marsh 
and think: but it’s not a waste of time 

to return to our roots, 
to just be and breathe. 
Modern accomplishments 
are the waste of time, really. 
Creating new ways of waste, 
more items of convenient 
trash: hallmarks of humanity 
that cause sickness, not success. 
Money means nothing in the grave, 
nor the stress to get it. 

A tawny fluttering of wings 
whips past my ears and my periphery 
identifies a lady cardinal 
but it could just as easily have been 
a northern flicker, 
a chipping sparrow, 
a house finch, 
or the rarely spotted 
red-bellied woodpecker. 

The rush shush brush, soft crush 
of the wind-blown foliage 
stirs my soul—is the sound of my soul—is 
the sound of my goddess’s voice 
avowing amity.