this bundled month,
I made homemade apricot jam rather
than spend time on edits.
Editing my book is like a patriotic parade,
with funereal slowness.
A sad march.
Characters are intimate friends.
I’m sensitive to their needs.
They want me to linger.
But I’m going swimming.
Plug in the fan,
turn on the air.
I’m crocheting a blanket.
Reading a book with dreary characters.
Local play rehearsals are my new diversion.
Town had a historic bell-ringing celebration.
Glad I could make it.
There’s the woman’s group,
the city meeting at Elks,
and of course,
Jittery dogs need a walk.
Reruns on television.
It doesn’t seem fair to repeat quiz shows,
though my answers sound impressive.
I’d rather be an ear to a friend.
Their drama better than mine.
I’m not complaining.
But there’s something about this summer,
That’s kept me praying.
A sudden shift in normal--
perhaps just the alignment of the stars--
in the warmed-up sky.
One neighbor sailed away forever.
Our home shook on the Fourth of July.
You were here,
as if to warn us,
centered on the gate.
I need to make stickers for jam jars.
Go work on my manuscript?
What is wrong with you?
No wonder I took your photo.