Year: 2022

oct 8/RUN

4.25 miles
cleveland loop
44 degrees

Sunny and clear. Did I see any clouds in the sky? The only thing I remember seeing is a plane — just a small smudge of white — that I originally thought was the moon.

some winter layers: black running tights; black shorts; long-sleeved green base layer (REI, this shirt might be 9 or 10 years old, worn for almost every winter run); bright orange pull-over; baseball cap — twins, black with white polka dots; bright pink headband to cover my ears.

My second favorite Halloween house (Longfellow’s Lament will always be the best), the one that I thought would never happen again, is happening! A few days ago, Scott, Delia, and I walked by it — rats eating fake fingers, tombstones, a few disembodied heads, ghosts. Nice! This morning, running by it, I saw (and heard) someone in the yard setting up some creepy music. Yes!

10 Things I Noticed

  1. 2 rowing shells on the river
  2. a woman on the bridge taking a picture of the view
  3. crowded paths near St. Thomas
  4. several bright red trees
  5. the click click clack of a roller skier’s poles
  6. red leaves on the sidewalk fading into pink
  7. the smell of breakfast near Black Coffee — hash browns, toast, bacon, grease
  8. the bells chiming — maybe it was 10? — at St. Thomas
  9. the coxswain’s voice drifting up from below
  10. waiting at Cretin (on Summit) for the light to change, when it did and I started running again, I heard the footsteps of another runner behind me. Would they pass me or fade away? They faded away

Read Glück’s “October” again before I went out for a run, and intended to think about these lines, but I forgot once I started moving:

The light has changed;
middle C is tuned darker now.
And the songs of morning sound over-rehearsed.

This is the light of autumn, not the light of spring.

I wanted to think about how the morning song is over-rehearsed and how the light has changed. Then I wanted to think about the differences between autumn and spring light, which always seem similar to me, but not quite the same. Why not? Is it mostly what’s coming next — abundance or scarcity?

oct 7/RUN

3.1 miles
trestle turn around
43 degrees / mist

Even though I had been sitting at my desk in front of 2 big windows this morning, I hadn’t noticed that it was raining. Oh well, by the time I was ready to run the rain was mostly done. Just a fine mist and dripping trees. I guess I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t realized it was raining/had rained: my neighbor had their sprinkler on and was watering their lawn!

Yesterday I mentioned that I should try doing a warm-up inside before going out for my run. I did, and it worked! I could feel my muscles activating and no kneecap slips. Excellent!

A beautiful, muted morning. Quiet, cooler, soft. Even the glowing oranges and reds seemed softer, more subtle in their show. I felt really good — strong, relaxed, making an effort but not working too hard. Flying or floating or bouncing off the trail in a steady rhythm.

To test how hard I was working, I tried (and mostly succeeded in) reciting Robert Frost’s “Nothing Gold Can Stay” and Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “Spring and Fall” out loud. In an easy run, you should be able to carry on a conversation without any problems, or in this case, be able to recite a poem without needing to take a breath every word. I stumbled over a few words, but that was my memory’s fault not my lungs’.

I think I saw Santa Claus at the beginning of my run. Good mornied! Mr. Morning! Heard the rowers down below and the geese up above. Glimpsed the river though the thinning leaves. Dodged some walkers. Squeaked on the wet leaves.

Thought about stopping at the halfway point and putting in my music; decided to keep listening to the gorge or my breathing or my thoughts.

Started reading Louise Glück’s Averno before my run. “October” is the second poem in the collection. I’m thinking about reading the entire collection. Should I?

Averno = a small crater lake in Italy, regarded by the ancient Romans as the entrance to the underworld.

Here’s the first poem of the collection:

The Night Migrations/ Louise Glück

This is the moment when you see again
the red berries of the mountain ash
and in the dark sky
the birds’ night migrations.

It grieves me to think
the dead won’t see them—
these things we depend on,
they disappear.

What will the soul do for solace then?
I tell myself maybe it won’t need
these pleasures anymore;
maybe just not being is simply enough,
hard as that is to imagine.

This poem makes me think of one of my favorite Emily Dickinson poems, “We Grow Accustomed to the Dark”:

We grow accustomed to the Dark –/ Emily Dickinson

We grow accustomed to the Dark –
When light is put away –
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Goodbye –

A Moment – We uncertain step
For newness of the night –
Then – fit our Vision to the Dark –
And meet the Road – erect –

And so of larger – Darkness –
Those Evenings of the Brain –
When not a Moon disclose a sign –
Or Star – come out – within –

The Bravest – grope a little –
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead –
But as they learn to see –

Either the Darkness alters –
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight –
And Life steps almost straight.

There are many different ways I think of these poems together, but right now, I’m thinking about Glück’s first line, This the moment when you see again, as the moment in ED’s poem when we fit our vision to the Dark and Life steps almost straight. This moment, for Glück, is the moment after a great loss and after you have been changed by it. This idea of being changed/altered comes up several times in “October,” especially in 4:

The light has changed.

The songs have changed.

So much has changed.

And yet the notes recur. They hover oddly
in anticipation of silence.
The ear gets used to them.
The eye gets used to disappearances.

You will not be spared, nor will what you love be spared.

oct 6/RUN

6.1 miles
minnehaha dog park and back*
53 degrees

*a new route: south on the river road trail, past the falls and John Stevens’ house, along the gorge with hidden falls on the other side until turning around just before the dog park

Cooler weather. A bit blustery. Most of the time, the wind was pushing me and the leaves. Every so often I chanted, I am the wind and the wind is invisible, all the leaves tremble but I am invisible (Richard Siken) and Who has seen the wind? Neither I nor you: but when the leaves hang trembling, the wind is passing through. Who has seen the wind? Neither you nor I: but when the trees bow down their heads, the wind is passing by (Christina Rossetti).

Felt strong and relaxed. My right kneecap did some tiny slips. I decided that I should start warming up more before I head out for a run. Hopefully this will help my knee stay in the groove? Also: worked on my posture, trying to keep my trunk tall and my head straight.

A rare occasion: Nearing the park building at the falls, I realized I needed to go the bathroom, so I stopped. Hooray for a real bathroom, and not just a port-a-potty or a bush!

10+ Things I Noticed

  1. the leaves on the edge of the gorge, down near the ground, look a bright glowing orange instead of their usual red. Not sure if that’s true, or just my bad vision
  2. a view is coming! the trees are thinning in a stretch somewhere between 38th and 42nd and I could see the blue of the river below
  3. between the double-bridge and the locks and dam no. 1: a row of bushes, still thick with leaves, blocking my view of the river. The light flashing through the small gaps disorients
  4. seeing these flashes, wondering if I should tilt my hat to shield my eyes, a peleton passes by on the road
  5. at the falls, several of the sidewalks are covered in fallen leaves
  6. the trail is peppered with bright reds, yellows, oranges
  7. many of the trees at the falls have changed from green to gold and red, but a cluster (a stand?) of 4 or 5 are still green
  8. running above the gorge, parallel to Hiawatha, sirens — what happened and where?
  9. a bright red tree, glowing with color, way over in the neighborhood on the other side of Hiawatha
  10. the sandy beach at Hidden Falls almost glowing white through the trees
  11. the falls, dry — not a drop of creek water falling down the limestone
  12. someone blasting music (rock? pop?) from their car on Hiawatha. So loud!
  13. bing bing the fake bells of the train ringing as it pulls out of the 50th street station

The Secret in the Mirror/ Alberto Ríos

The mirror is dirty from the detritus of dailiness—
I look in the mirror and am freckled.

A week out from being cleaned, maybe two, maybe more,
The Milky Way shows itself in the secret silver,

This star chart in my own bathroom,
Aglow not in darkness but with the lights on,

Everything suddenly so clear.
It is not smear I am looking at, but galaxies.

It is not toothpaste and water spots—
When I look in the mirror, it is writing and numbers,

Musical notes, 1s and 0s, Morse-like codes, runes.
I am looking over into the other side,

And over there, whoever they are, it turns out
They look a lot like me. Like me, but freckled.

I really appreciate Ríos’ description in “About this Poem”:

…this poem speaks to the everyday lives we also lead—not cleaning the bathroom sink quite as much as we perhaps should, not always controlling the floss strings of good intentions now turned wild, not vacuuming nearly enough. But even in the mundane, we have, always at hand, surprise, surprise at its most savory in that we have least expected to find it where it is not advertised.

Surprise. Yes! I’m struck by how my failing vision creates a lot of surprise as my brain attempts to guess what I’m looking at. My vision aside, I also like the idea of finding the magical in the moments when the mundane fails, like when we fail to clean our bathroom mirror.

oct 4/RUN

2.5 miles
2 trails
60 degrees

Another colorful fall morning. Noisy, too. So much construction on our block and around the neighborhood. beep beep beep beep brrrrrr brrrrrr. Ran south on the river road and encountered lots of bikes. Noticed how the river was burning a bright white. Got lost in some thoughts about a new form for my vision poems. Forgot to notice the bridge above the ravine in the stretch between 44th and 42nd on the winchell trail. Stopped near the top of the hill at 42nd to speak some ideas into my phone. Ran some more, then stopped again. Do I have some good ideas that can become something? I hope so. I’m interested in experimenting with the peripheral as where I see and the center as a flat landscape/background. Maybe have a flat, lifeless description of the landscape with flashes of more meaningful words sprinkled along the peripheral? I like the idea of making the center a flat, lifeless landscape/background because that’s what my brain does; it fills in a background, like wallpaper. It’s mostly what’s there, but my view doesn’t include any objects that my few cones or my peripheral rods didn’t register. Listening to my notes, I also mention being inspired by the vision tests at the DMV, which have both a mini snellen chart and flashes you have to notice. For years before I was diagnosed, I would have this seemingly irrational fear of the vision test at the DMV. I always wondered why. Now I know. Not sure how to translate these tests into a poetic form.

10 Things I Noticed*

*while not really paying attention to my surroundings

  1. a peleton of younger bikers on the road
  2. a string of older bikers on the trail
  3. a biker swinging wide to mount their bike just as I ran by
  4. a dog barking at me as I swung wide to avoid them and their owner
  5. bright yellow vests
  6. a tree leaning over the dirt trail, which used to be asphalt, just past the 38th street steps
  7. two voices behind me, getting closer when I stopped to speak into my phone
  8. a woman with a dog passing by me X 2
  9. dripping water at the 42nd street sewer pipe
  10. Santa Claus running fast!

I noticed more than I thought. I haven’t seen Santa Claus (the Regular runner who has a bushy white beard like Santa Claus) in a while.

Here’s a poem I discovered yesterday while previewing May Swenson’s Nature (which I ordered!). It fits with my theme for September, and how I’m feeling these days: tender.

Living Tenderly/ May Swenson

My body a rounded stone
with a pattern of smooth seams.
My head a short snake,
retractive, projective.
My legs out out of their sleeves
or shrink within,
and so does my chin.
My eyelids are quick clamps.

My back is my roof.
I am always at home.
I travel where my house walks.
It is a smooth stone.
It floats within the lake,
or rests in the dust.
My flesh lives tenderly
inside its bone.

oct 3/RUN

5.4 miles
ford loop
61 degrees

Full fall color! More orange than anything else. Beautiful. Running over the lake street bridge — river emptied of everything but ripples. Windy. Noticed the evidence of the marathon everywhere — port-a-potties and barricades waiting to be picked up. No trash or torn-up grass or anything else that might indicate lots of people gathered here. I’m always impressed with how quickly everything is picked up. Encountered an older woman on the lake street steps. Tried to think about May Swenson’s wonderful poem, “October,” but all my thoughts scattered. Felt good. My right knee (the OG), didn’t bother me until the very end, and barely. No shifting or rubbing kneecap today!

No headphones for the first 4.5 miles. Put in Bruno Mars playlist — “talking to the moon” — while I finished my run.

10 Things I Noticed

  1. Orange everywhere! Not the kind that’s almost red, but the soft neon, almost like orange sherbet
  2. No rowers on the river, no roller skiers on the path, one fast-moving rollerblader
  3. A single goose honking, somewhere in the sky
  4. mostly cloudy with the sun sometimes peeking through the clouds
  5. long shadows cast by the trees on the east river side, near the overlook closest to the ford bridge
  6. a stretch on the east side of the river with no trees — no shade, nothing to frame the wide open sky, strangely bare
  7. the sound of jack hammers
  8. 2 bikers at the top of Summit, just past the monument. One said to the other, “This is the only tricky (or did he tough?) part of the route”
  9. a bike darted past me on the ford bridge then turned into a small overlook. No! I wanted to stop there to admire the leaves! Then, before I reached the overlook, hopped on their bike and pedaled away. Hooray!
  10. the short path that you cut down after exiting the ford bridge to get to the river road was the ideal form of Fall — all oranges, a few yellows, a winding path, mysterious woods

A few weeks ago, I decided that in October I would study 2 poems titled October, one my May Swenson, the other by Louise Glück. This week, May Swenson’s version:

October/ May Swenson

1

A smudge for the horizon
that, on a clear day, shows
the hard edge of hills and
buildings on the other coast.
Anchored boats all head one way:
north, where the wind comes from.
You can see the storm inflating
out of the west. A dark hole
in gray cloud twirls, widens,
while white rips multiply
on the water far out.
Wet tousled yellow leaves,
thick on the slate terrace.
The jay’s hoarse cry. He’s
stumbling in the air,
too soaked to fly.

2

Knuckles of the rain
on the roof,
chuckles into the drain-
pipe, spatters on
the leaves that litter
the grass. Melancholy
morning, the tide full
in the bay, an overflowing
bowl. At least, no wind,
no roughness in the sky,
its gray face bedraggled
by its tears.

3

Peeling a pear, I remember
my daddy’s hand. His thumb
(the one that got nipped by the saw,
lacked a nail) fit into
the cored hollow of the slippery
half his knife skinned so neatly.
Dad would pare the fruit from our
orchard in the fall, while Mother
boiled the jars, prepared for
“putting up.” Dad used to darn
our socks when we were small,
and cut our hair and toenails.
Sunday mornings, in pajamas, we’d
take turns in his lap. He’d help
bathe us sometimes. Dad could do
anything. He built our dining table,
chairs, the buffet, the bay window
seat, my little desk of cherry wood
where I wrote my first poems. That
day at the shop, splitting panel
boards on the electric saw (oh, I
can hear the screech of it now,
the whirling blade that sliced
my daddy’s thumb), he received the mar
that, long after, in his coffin,
distinguished his skilled hand.

4

I sit with braided fingers
and closed eyes
in a span of late sunlight.
The spokes are closing.
It is fall: warm milk of light,
though from an aging breast.
I do not mean to pray.
The posture for thanks or
supplication is the same
as for weariness or relief.
But I am glad for the luck
of light. Surely it is godly,
that it makes all things
begin, and appear, and become
actual to each other.
Light that’s sucked into
the eye, warming the brain
with wires of color.
Light that hatched life
out of the cold egg of earth.

5

Dark wild honey, the lion’s
eye color, you brought home
from a country store.
Tastes of the work of shaggy
bees on strong weeds,
their midsummer bloom.
My brain’s electric circuit
glows, like the lion’s iris
that, concentrated, vibrates
while seeming not to move.
Thick transparent amber
you brought home,
the sweet that burns.

6

“The very hairs of your head
are numbered,” said the words
in my head, as the haircutter
snipped and cut, my round head
a newel poked out of the tent
top’s slippery sheet, while my
hairs’ straight rays rained
down, making pattern on the neat
vacant cosmos of my lap. And
maybe it was those tiny flies,
phantoms of my aging eyes, seen
out of the sides floating (that,
when you turn to find them
full face, always dissolve) but
I saw, I think, minuscule,
marked in clearest ink, Hairs
#9001 and #9002 fall, the cut-off
ends streaking little comets,
till they tumbled to confuse
with all the others in their
fizzled heaps, in canyons of my
lap. And what keeps asking
in my head now that, brushed off
and finished, I’m walking
in the street, is how can those
numbers remain all the way through,
and all along the length of every
hair, and even before each one
is grown, apparently, through
my scalp? For, if the hairs of my
head are numbered, it means
no more and no less of them
have ever, or will ever be.
In my head, now cool and light,
thoughts, phantom white flies,
take a fling: This discovery
can apply to everything.

7

Now and then, a red leaf riding
the slow flow of gray water.
From the bridge, see far into
the woods, now that limbs are bare,
ground thick-littered. See,
along the scarcely gliding stream,
the blanched, diminished, ragged
swamp and woods the sun still
spills into. Stand still, stare
hard into bramble and tangle,
past leaning broken trunks,
sprawled roots exposed. Will
something move?—some vision
come to outline? Yes, there—
deep in—a dark bird hangs
in the thicket, stretches a wing.
Reversing his perch, he says one
“Chuck.” His shoulder-patch
that should be red looks gray.
This old redwing has decided to
stay, this year, not join the
strenuous migration. Better here,
in the familiar, to fade.

After posting this, I decided to order Swenson’s collection Nature (and Glück’s Averno). So excited!

Back to Swenson. Today, before I went out for my run, I was struck by 4, 5, and 6, especially in terms of light, the eye, and vision.

from 4
But I am glad for the luck
of light. Surely it is godly,
that it makes all things
begin, and appear, and become
actual to each other.
Light that’s sucked into
the eye, warming the brain
with wires of color.
Light that hatched life
out of the cold egg of earth.

I like her description of light, the eye, and the brain, which is warmed with wires of color.

In the next section, 6, I’m struck by how, after praising light, she (seems to) praise darkness too:

Dark wild honey, the lion’s
eye color, you brought home
from a country store.

And offers a parallel description of dark, the eye, and the brain:

My brain’s electric circuit
glows, like the lion’s iris
that, concentrated, vibrates
while seeming not to move.

The eyes and light and vision come up again in section 6:

maybe it was those tiny flies,
phantoms of my aging eyes, seen
out of the sides floating (that,
when you turn to find them
full face, always dissolve)

then

In my head, now cool and light,
thoughts, phantom white flies,
take a fling

What to make of these references?

oct 1/RUN

5.25 miles
prior loop*
57 degrees

*an extended version of the Marshall loop. Over the lake street bridge, past Cretin and Cleveland to right on Prior Street, then right on Summit to the river. note: in an earlier version of this description, I read the street sign incorrectly. I thought it was St. Peter instead of Prior.

Wow! Fall colors! Reds, oranges, yellows. Felt cooler than 57, damp. Sometimes cloudy, sometimes sunny, always calm with hardly a breeze. Running over the lake street bridge, I witnessed a rowing event — a practice? a race? I’m not sure what it was, but they had buoys lined up and the river was dotted with rowing shells, from small (1 person) to big (8 person). What a beautiful image. As I ran past, I kept turning my neck to take more of it in. 30 or 40 minutes later, when I crossed back over the bridge, they were still there. This time, I heard the voice of a male coxswain too.

knee update: my right knee, the one that’s prone to subluxations is grumbling a bit. For the past 2 runs, around 5 minutes in, I can feel the kneecap rubbing — is it coming out of the groove slightly? After another 5 minutes, it settles. The rest of the run is fine, but when I’m done that knee is slightly swollen.

Image of the Day

Running past my favorite spot on the east river trail, the trees parted and the river was revealed, glowing from the sun and the yellow, orange, and red trees on the opposite shore. The water was blue and covered in boats and buoys.

10 Things I Remember

  1. the smell of cigar smoke as I neared the bottom of the marshall hill
  2. a group of 5 or 6 spectators on the bridge watching the rowers below
  3. stopped at the light at cretin, waiting for it to turn green again, shifting my weight from foot to foot
  4. running by where choo choo bob’s used to be, and where FWA had his 3rd birthday party, and wondering if it was still there (looked it up, it’s not)
  5. 2 big stone lions guarding the front of the big house on summit
  6. the sound of a siren, 2 women waiting on a corner, one of them complaining, this took forever, then hearing her say, you guys took over 40 minutes! I didn’t see an injured person or any sign of something wrong. What happened? Who was hurt? Where would the women lead them?
  7. screeching blue jays
  8. near the top of the hill, close to the entrance to the shadow falls trail, a speedy bike whipped around the corner
  9. a walker ahead of me swinging her arms widely from side to side
  10. hearing the rowers through the trees as I ran above the river on the west side

leaf watch, 2022

Gorgeous. Getting close to peak, I think. Tomorrow’s marathon will be beautiful.

EDNA/ Todd Dillard

My daughter is bored so I tell her silverfish
are neither silver nor a fish, but a spoon-dull insect
that loves kitchens bathrooms the mouths of children.
Silverfish! Silverfish! she squeals, the word
peeling from her lips and crawling down her legs.
She watches me knead the day’s dough
and asks if Kleenex are used to clean necks.
The TV says a crane collapsed off 34th and
she wants to know if it’s because the crane was thirsty.
Some afternoons we visit the neighborhood pool and
even though she can barely swim my daughter isn’t afraid.
She’s so unafraid it makes me afraid. She loves it
when I pick her up and throw her as far away as possible.
She loves to paddle back and scream Again! Again!
But she loves it most when I swim away as fast as I can,
when my back becomes a shore she’s trying to reach.
My daughter’s named the pool Edna. Sometimes
Edna helps her reach me. When it’s time to go
my daughter says “See you soon, Edna.”
Every day I am terrified in new ways.

I love this poem and how Dillard captures the spirit of his young daughter. I love the line about his back being a shore she’s trying to reach. And I love that the pool is named Edna. What a great name for a body of water!

sept 30/RUN

3.1 miles
trestle turn around
57 degrees

Today is the 13th anniversary of my mom’s death. Last night, my second mom (always more than a mother-in-law) died. Cancer killed both of them too soon. Here’s how I’d like to remember them, together, laughing:

A beautiful fall morning. Lots of yellows and reds and even some orange. Greeted Dave, the Daily Walker with a hi! instead of a good morning Dave! Thought about my right knee and hoped it would be okay — I took an extra day off because it was a little sore/swollen. It seems okay. Whew! Did I think much about grief? Not sure. I heard some strange birds, or were they cranking squirrels? I couldn’t tell. Don’t think I looked at the river even once. Didn’t hear any rowers or roller skiers. No fat tires. No walnuts or acorns or epiphanies. Just a nice 30 minute release from sadness and fatigue and worry about having to tell RJP when she comes home this afternoon.

sept 27/RUN

5.5 miles
ford loop
48 degrees

Today, it feels like fall. Wore my running tights under my shorts.

My right knee is a bit sore. It didn’t hurt while I was running, just after, when I was walking. Now, as I write this, I’m icing it.

Windy. Hissing trees. Running across the ford bridge, the wind was blowing off of the river, making my ponytail and pink jacket flap furiously. The water had strange streaks on it — how was the wind making that happen?

Noticed some crows and lots of construction everywhere. They’re redoing all the sidewalks in the neighborhood. Heard some woodpeckers, drumming on trees. Heard a jackhammer across the river and thought about how it sounded like the woodpeckers. Greeted Mr. Walker and Mr. Morning! Overheard some women say something about listening to a podcast.

leaf watch, 2022

A few bright red trees, some yellow. Still well below peak.

Anything else? Heard the St. Thomas bells chime 10 times. Noticed my shadow above shadow falls. Enjoyed the sensation of running over the dirt — the shshsh sound and the soft slide of my feet as the lifted off the gritty ground.

Here are two poems I recently found on twitter, one about love, the other beauty:

I’ve Been Thinking about Love Again/ Vievee Francis

Those who live to have it and
those who live to give it.

Of course there are those for whom both are true,
but never in the same measure.

Those who have it to give are
like cardinals in the snow. So easy
and beautifully lit. Some
are rabbits. Hard to see
except for those who would prey upon them:
all that softness and quaking and blood.

Those who want it
cannot be satisfied. Eagle-eyed and such talons,
any furred thing will do. So easy
to rip out a heart when it is throbbing so hard.

I wander out into the winter.
I know what I am.

A page from Frank: Sonnets/ Diane Seuss

Sometimes I can’t feel it, what some call

beauty. I can see it, I swear, the conifers

and fat bees, ferns like church fans and then

the sea, its flatness as if pressed by stones

like witches were, the dark sand ridged

by tides, strewn with body parts, claws,

the stranded mesoglea of the moon jellyfish,

transparent blob, brainless, enlightened in its clarity.

I stand there, I walk the shore at low tide, the sky

fearless, not open to me, just open, there it is,

the wind, cold, surf’s boom drowning out

thought, I can photograph it, I can name it

beautiful, but feel it, I don’t know that I am

feeling it, when I drown in it, maybe then.

note: more info on mesoglea and the moon jellyfish

sept 25/RUN

3.1 miles
turkey hollow
57 degrees

Another beautiful fall morning. Listened to Bruno Mars and didn’t think about anything, or didn’t hold onto anything that I thought about. Didn’t see any turkeys or greet anyone. No view of the river — well, I think I might have seen it shimmering through the trees at one point, but it was far off, on the other side of the river road, so I can’t be sure. Forgot to notice the color of the trees or look for acorns or walnuts or squirrels.

Found this Niedecker poem on twitter the other day. I love her poetry.

Along the River/ Lorine Niedecker

Along the river
        wild sunflowers
over my head
        the dead
who gave me life
        give me this
our relative the air
        floods
our rich friend
        silt

Trying to find out more about this poem, I discovered that it was turned to a song (at least I think this is the same poem; it’s difficult to understand the lyrics):

sept 24/RUN

4.4 miles
st. thomas loop*
57 degrees / humidity: 88%

*a new loop! 43rd ave, north/31st st, east/46th ave, north/lake street, east/lake street bridge/up marshall hill/cleveland, south/summit ave, west/east river road, south/lake street bridge/west river road, south/stop at ancient boulder

A grayish-white, or white-ish gray?, morning. Cool, not crisp but damp. Lots of leaves on the ground. Lots of gold in the trees — more gold than red or orange. No rowers on the river, but at least one or two roller skiers on the path. I felt good.

Recited Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “Spring and Fall” and Robert Frost’s “Nothing Gold Can Stay” as I ran. I struggle with the rhythm in Hopkins’ third and fourth lines:

Leaves, the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?

I don’t remember anything else I thought about. What did I think about? I’m happy to lose some thoughts and some time.

A quote from the wonderful Pádraig Ó Tuama about poetry:

A little block of letters in the middle of a blank page can open up windows into your world, and offer help, insight, company, spaciousness, reflection, and solidarity. In solitude we can appreciate a deeper solitude. In need we can approach company.” —Pádraig Ó Tuama

@duanalla

And, some more regular questions to ask ourselves that I want to add to my undisciplined site:

What are we pretending not to know today?” —Toni Cade Bambara What are we pretending not to see? What have we pretended not to see for a long, long time?

Deborah E. McDowell