A wonderful fall morning. Sunny, glowing trees, not much wind. I felt great during my run. Easy, relaxed. The problem: when I was done, and walking back, my right kneecap started to act up. Small slides and shifts, not wanting to stay in place. Now, I’m icing it. Bummer. I’m not sure why my knee is having problems.
Lately, it’s a challenge making it to the river. There are redoing so many sidewalks in the neighborhood that it’s hard to know which street to take over to the river road. Today, I zigzagged until I reached edmund, then down the hill until I reached 32nd, then over to the trail.
On the path, a squirrel was running ahead of me. They couldn’t decide which way to go — away from me, or right towards me. They darted away, then back, then away, then back. Fuck, I muttered under my breath.
Running at my favorite spot on the east side, just above the lake street bridge, I was running too close to the railing and didn’t see a pigeon (was it a pigeon?) stopped on a post. Normally birds will fly away before you reach them; this one, just barely in time. I exclaimed, geeze, and held up my hands to my face as its wings flapped furiously. As usual, I wondered how ridiculous I looked to a passing driver.
Recited my favorite section from May Swenson’s “October” — the whole thing this time:
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? A vision come to outline? Yes, there— deep in—a dark bird hangs in the thicket, stretching a wing. Reversing its perch, it says one “chuck.” The patch on his shoulder that should be red looks gray. This old redbird is planning to stay, this year, not join in the strenuous migration. Better here, in the familiar, to fade.
another word repeated: still
I have loved the line, Stand still, stare hard, ever since I first read this poem a few years ago.
Ran past a big boulder with a plaque. I thought about stopping to read it, but I didn’t want to stop. One day, I’ll stop, I thought. But will I?
Thought about stopping to take off my orange sweatshirt. I didn’t. Thought about stopping to walk up the steep (but less steep now that they’ve rerouted it) sidewalk to ford bridge. I ran the entire 5.5 miles without stopping. Excellent.
Anything else? Running on the east side, past a ravine that’s not too far from the ford bridge, I had a memory of living in northern virginia when I was 10. Such beautiful falls! The leaves, the sun, the winding roads! A happy memory — not of one specific time, but the feeling of fall — crisp air, sun shining on orange leaves, trails to explore, fresh cider to drink. I don’t want to go back to that time, but I like feeling it again. Something about running on the east side of the river helps me to do that. Why the east side, but not the west? Not sure.
6.05 miles bottom of franklin hill and back 51 degrees
A beautiful morning, a good run. Now, minutes after it, I’m wiped out. Ran down the franklin hill, past annie young meadows, to the top of the south fourth st overlook. Stopped to admire the river: blue, with 2 rowers, one in a bright orange top (shirt? vest? jacket?). Started running again, walked up the franklin hill, then ran again, this time with a Taylor Swift playlist.
For the first few miles, I recited lines from May Swenson’s “October”:
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.
As I recited it, I wondered about the repetition of now (now and then; now that limbs are bare) and into (see far into; the sun still spills into). Why does she repeat these words?
10 People I Encountered
Was mornied! by Mr. Morning! I had run past him — only seeing him from behind and not noticing it was him — and he called out. I turned back and called out good morning!
Greeted Dave, the Daily Walker.
Ran past Daddy Long Legs.
a woman walking briskly, wearing a turquoise fleece, talking with
another woman, together they approached me from behind as I walked up the franklin hill. Their voices hovered, growing louder as they neared
a runner dressed in black — first far behind me, then closer, then past me, then far ahead
a person sitting on a bench perched on the rim of the bluff
an older man and woman walking — I think I regularly encounter them? Can’t remember what the woman looks like, but the man is tall, thin, and white with white hair
a roller skier, roller skiing in the flats
a biker blasting music — I couldn’t hear it because I had my headphones in
word of the day: bombinate
I follow Merriam-Webster on twitter. Had to make note of today’s word of the day. “To bombinate is to make a sustained, murmuring sound similar to a buzz or drone.” I strongly dislike anything that bombinates.That low-lying, ever-present rumble that unsettles. I do like saying the word, though.
Taylor Swift’s “Red” came on near the end of my fifth mile. As I listened to the lyrics, I was struck by the chorus:
Losing him was blue, like I’d never known Missing him was dark gray, all alone Forgetting him was like trying to know Somebody you never met But loving him was red Oh, red Burning red
Perhaps this isn’t fair, but I kept thinking about how predictable and unimaginative her color descriptions are. And then I started thinking about synesthesia, which I don’t have, and wondering if people with it see emotions as colors, and what colors they might see. And now, after quickly researching the link between blue and gray and depression, I’m thinking about color psychology and feeling skeptical.
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
a peleton of younger bikers on the road
a string of older bikers on the trail
a biker swinging wide to mount their bike just as I ran by
a dog barking at me as I swung wide to avoid them and their owner
bright yellow vests
a tree leaning over the dirt trail, which used to be asphalt, just past the 38th street steps
two voices behind me, getting closer when I stopped to speak into my phone
a woman with a dog passing by me X 2
dripping water at the 42nd street sewer pipe
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.
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
Orange everywhere! Not the kind that’s almost red, but the soft neon, almost like orange sherbet
No rowers on the river, no roller skiers on the path, one fast-moving rollerblader
A single goose honking, somewhere in the sky
mostly cloudy with the sun sometimes peeking through the clouds
long shadows cast by the trees on the east river side, near the overlook closest to the ford bridge
a stretch on the east side of the river with no trees — no shade, nothing to frame the wide open sky, strangely bare
the sound of jack hammers
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”
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!
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:
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
Writing this entry almost an hour after my run, it’s sunny, but when I was out by the gorge it was overcast, with some mist or fog or some kind of moisture hanging in the air. Barely any wind. Calm, quiet, peaceful. I thought about the haunting poems I’m working on, and tried to forget Omicron. Just a few days ago, I wasn’t too concerned about this new variant. Without enough data, it’s too early for that. But, even though intellectually and emotionally (at least, I thought) I wasn’t stressed about it, my body has decided to have a mild sinus flair-up. Some pressure in my face/cheeks, a ticklish, scratchy throat. It’s not debilitating, just uncomfortable and distracting. Is this caused by anxiety over this new variant? Possibly. I’m trying to avoid twitter, facebook, and any online news in the hopes that it will calm me down.
Back to the poems I’m working on. Before heading out the door, I gave myself 2 questions to ponder: Who are the ghosts, the dead or the living? Does it depend on how you see (understand, think about, imagine) it? These questions were partly inspired by some lines from Ed Bok Lee in “Halos” that I’m using as an epigraph:
How else, when blinded by life, would I remember:
to the dead, we’re the ghosts.
When I first read these lines, I was confused by them. I still am, but they seem to fit with how my sequence of poems on haunts/haunting/haunted play around with who is being haunted and who is doing the haunting. I like the idea of not resolving this question and letting both answers be possible at any given time, or at specific times. Sometimes the living are the ghosts, sometimes it’s the dead. I also like the idea of not spelling out what that means, but presenting images that complicate it. Running on the east side of the river, with a gray, mostly sunless sky, I encountered such an image: a pale, still river reflecting a fully formed, clear inverted trestle bridge in the water. Marveling at it, I wondered, which bridge is real, the one that’s right side up or the one upside down? As I continued to look at the water, I noticed fully formed trees, the lake street bridge, and clouds also reflected in the water. Very cool.
This images reminds me of May Swenson’s wonderful poem, Water Picture. Here’s an excerpt:
In the pond in the park all things are doubled: Long buildings hang and wriggle gently. Chimneys are bent legs bouncing on clouds below. A flag wags like a fishhook down there in the sky.
The arched stone bridge is an eye, with underlid in the water. In its lens dip crinkled heads with hats that don’t fall off. Dogs go by, barking on their backs.
10 Things I Noticed
4 stones stacked on the ancient boulder
the clicking and clacking of ski poles as a roller skier approached from somewhere I couldn’t see
running past the old stone steps: a clear, beautiful view of the forest floor and the trail that winds through bare tree trunks to reach the river
the dark brown dirt of the Winchell Trail below me as I neared Franklin
the folding table set up at the White Sands Beach far below me
puddles on the franklin bridge — no ice, only standing water
the ancient boulder on the east side of the river never has any stones stacked on it. Is that because its top isn’t flat enough?
the fence panel that was removed a month or so ago, has been replaced and now, it’s hard to remember (or easy to forget) that it was ever missing
looking down at the the part of the winchell trail that goes under the lake street bridge: the dirt is not a dark brown, but lighter, more yellow, almost like spicy brown mustard
running north on the west side of the river road: car headlights approaching me through the trees
One more thing: I was able to greet both Dave, the Daily Walker and Mr. Morning! — that’s the name I came up with right now for the walker I’ve been seeing lately who likes to greet me with an enthusiastic, “morning!” I think he wears a darker blue coat, a stocking cap, and sunglasses. Mr. Morning! I love it.
I love how poets.org has an “about this poem” for each poem of the day. The one for today’s poem (from “The Book of Absence”) is very fitting for what I’m working on with my haunting poems:
About this Poem:
This is not poetry. This is a reading of the moment. Read it in the moment and pass on. Do not linger. Go. We don’t go to places. We go from places. We are dedicated to going, not staying. In going, we fade away. Consider my poetry as if you are walking down a road. Someone calls your name. You turn your head. There is nobody around. The road is deserted. Empty. You tell yourself somebody must have been there. But there is no one. Consider my poetry like that moment.” —Alireza Roshan, translated by Erfan Mojib and Gary Gach
Decided to run the ford loop this morning and stop at some of the overlooks. Is today one of the last beautiful fall days? Possibly. So much yellow and red everywhere. Leaves drifting down like fat, fluffy flakes. Sun lighting up the surface of the river. Amazing. Writing this, an hour later, the sky is dark. Rain coming. I’m glad I got outside this morning.
10 Things I Noticed
Running above the river, over the lake street bridge: the water looks a deep, dark blue
From the edge of the bluff, on the east side at one of my favorite spots, the river looks lighter, richer, still blue
Heading north, a strong-ish wind in my face
Running beside Shadow Falls, wondering if what I was hearing was water from the falls or the wind in the trees or both
Passing a group of pedestrians, walking 2 by 2 on the edge of the trail
A barking, lunging dog, barely held back by a human also pushing a stroller
The view, 1: from just below an overlook on the St. Paul side, standing on a rock, close to the edge. The bank on the west side of the river is mostly yellow and red, with a few bits of green still holding on. Looking left or right, all I could see were water, shore, trees, rock
The view, 2: from the ford bridge. Mostly brown tree trunks and green/red/yellow leaves. Then, a break. A gleaming white — is this the limestone cave where the trail ends? The spot where STA and I watched the rowers a few weeks ago?
The view, 3: from the overlook at the southern start of the Winchell Trail. The glittering, white heat of water lit by the sun. One way, the ford bridge. The other, trees
Running on the Winchell Trail, right before 42nd, the trails curves close to the edge. As you climb, it looks like you might just keep going, out into the sky, above the river
Before I ran, I studied a passage from U A Fanthorpe’s “Seven Types of Shadow,” especially the lines:
Ghosts of past, present, future. But the ones the living would like to meet are the echoes Of moments of small dead joys still quick in the streets
In particular, I was thinking a lot about echoes and reverberations. Halfway up the Summit Hill, I started thinking about bells and the reverberations of sound they emit after being struck. These thoughts were partly inspired by a passage I read from Annie Dillard in “Seeing” from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek:
Then one day I was walking along Tinker Creek thinking of nothing at all and I saw the tree with the lights in it. I saw the backyard cedar where the mourning doves roost charged and transfigured, each cell buzzing with flame. I stood on the grass with the lights in it, grass that was wholly fire, utterly focused and utterly dreamed. It was less like seeing than like being for the first time seen, knocked breathless by a powerful glance. The flood of fire abated, but I’m still spending the power. Gradually the lights went out in the cedar, the colors died, the cells unflamed and disappeared. I was still ringing. I had been my whole life a bell, and never knew it until at that moment I was lifted and struck.
Seeing/ Annie Dillard
I didn’t want to forget my thoughts, so I pulled out my phone, mid-run, and recorded myself. It was challenge, speaking while running and trying not to feel self-conscious as I passed other people:
Here’s a transcript of what I said. I turned it into a poem, using my breaths to break the lines. I’d like to try doing this some more — experiment with recording my thoughts mid-run, then using my breaths to shape the poem.
I’m thinking about how I’m a bell and how we’re all bells and when we are struck — is it at birth or is it like Annie Dillard: there’s a moment of awareness and clarity that makes our bell ring reverberate continue to echo?
added a few hours later: I forgot about how, just before I started recording my thoughts, I heard the bells of St. Thomas. Was it 10 am? or 9:45? Not sure, but it seemed fitting to hear these bells, which I often hear at my house too, as I was thinking about bells.
I thought about a lot of things on today’s wonderful run. Decided I’d like to make a list of the traces, trails, reverberations I encounter on my runs. Also decided to look up and listen to the Radiolab episode about echolocation. And I decided to think/research more about the presence of the WPA at the gorge. As I thought about this I wondered about my grandfather who lived in St. Paul and worked for the WPA. Was he a part of the gorge work — making benches, walls, steps? Shoring up ravines, minnehaha and hidden falls? He’s been dead for almost 30 years now, so I can’t ask him. A further set of questions I pondered as I ran past the steps leading down from the 44th street parking lot: Do I need to know the exact truth about his involvement with the WPA? Or, is it enough to know he was a part of it, and okay to imagine he might have helped build the old stone walls I run by, the benches I want to stop at but never do?
In between admiring the view and thinking about echoes, I recited the first part of the 7th section of May Swenson’s “October” in my head. Such a great part of a poem! I’m a big fan of May Swenson’s work.
Looked it up and found the echolocation episode. It’s from Invisibilia and not Radiolab: How to Become Batman
Hear the sledges with the bells— Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
II.
Hear the mellow wedding bells, Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten-golden notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon! Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells On the Future! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
III.
Hear the loud alarum bells— Brazen bells! What tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor Now—now to sit or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells Of Despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear it fully knows, By the twanging, And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling, And the wrangling. How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells— Of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
IV.
Hear the tolling of the bells— Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people—ah, the people— They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone— They are neither man nor woman— They are neither brute nor human— They are Ghouls: And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A pæan from the bells! And his merry bosom swells With the pæan of the bells! And he dances, and he yells; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the pæan of the bells— Of the bells: Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells— To the sobbing of the bells; Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells— To the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells— Bells, bells, bells— To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
4.25 miles minnehaha creek trail + lake nokomis 71 degrees
Today is STA’s 10 year anniversary of running (his runnaversary); mine is tomorrow. We decided to celebrate them together by running part of the path where it all began in 2011: Minnehaha Creek Trail. What a beautiful day! Maybe a little too bright and warm, but it feels like summer, normal summer.
Running on the trail brought back memories of the kids when they were kids. We lived over by this trail, and not as close to the river, for 10 years. I walked and biked it with FWA and RJP countless times, probably mostly in the summer–to camps, to and to the lake. It was strange to be on this path—for the first time in almost a year–and notice all the differences, like how the trail travels under 28th avenue now instead of steeply climbing up to a crosswalk. As we ran on it, STA remarked on how you would never be able to tell there had been a different trail here unless you remembered it. Yes, the importance of remembering. I’m good at that. It’s strange to be visiting these known, yet unfamiliar, places in the same city in which I still live. Growing up, I never lived in a town for more than 5 years: 4 years in UP Michigan; 5 years in Hickory, North Carolina; 1 year in Salem, Virginia; 4 years in a northern Virginia suburb of D.C; 4 years West/Des Moines, Iowa–well, when I was in college in Minnesota, I still lived in West Des Moines for the summer, so I guess you could count that as 8 years. Anyway, after a few years in the LA area, and a few years in Atlanta, we moved to Minneapolis for good. We’ve lived here since the late fall of 2003, when FWA was 6 months old. He’s 18 now. Wow. I love this place, and I love it even more since I started running around it. Tomorrow is my official 10 running anniversary, so I think I’ll write about what running means to me tomorrow.
Remembering Today’s Run
Such a warm, bright sun. Annoyingly (to STA, I’m sure), I had to recite a few lines from the “Rime of the Ancient Mariner”–the part after the Mariner has killed the albatross and the whole ship is paying the price: no breeze, “all in a hot and copper sky/the bloody sun at noon/right up above the mast it stands/no bigger than a moon.” The part I recited was: “Day after day, day after day/we stuck, no breath, no motion/as idle as a painted ship/upon a painted ocean.” We were moving but the air was not. When in the direct sun, I remember feeling hot and stuck
Checking out the menu for Sandcastle and thinking about how we could get some beers and fries after some of my swims this summer
Feeling sad about the big willow tree just past the echo bridge–a tree that I’ve featured in at least 2 poems–was recently cut down. Bummer
Stopping a lot so STA could take pictures (he posted them on instagram). At one spot, we noticed how still the water was and how clear the reflection of the boat was on its surface. I remember mentioning the myth of Adonis and how he looked at his reflection–but, I should have known better; checking my log entries I found the entry where I first mentioned this story and it was Narcissus. Here’s my entry from just over a year ago:
a mirror reflecting the fluffy clouds. I imagined that the water was another world, doubled and reversed, like in May Swenson’s great poem, “Water Picture“: “In the pond in the park/ all things are doubled:/ Long buildings hang and/ wriggle gently. Chimneys/ are bent legs bouncing/ on clouds below.” Love how “In the pond in the park” bounces on my tongue. I kept glancing over at the water and admiring its smooth beauty and how it looked like a mirror. I started thinking about the Greek myth (which I couldn’t really remember) about the hunter who looked at his reflection. I looked it up just now–of course it was Narcissus. Here’s an interesting article I found that discusses him and the idea of mirrors in water–it even has a picture of Salvadore Dali looking into the water.
A new month, a new theme. Last month was birds; this month is water and stone. Today’s poem is one I posted on this log a few years ago (I think), but it’s time to revisit it:
Much less wind today–5 mph instead of 12-15. So bright, cool, not too crowded. Encountered a few people on the trail but was able to keep at least 6 ft of distance. Is 6 ft still the recommended distance? I know it is probably very low risk to run past another person, only being close to them for a second, but I’m still uneasy when I encounter someone. During the run, I think it was near Becketwood, I imagined how relieved I’ll be when I finally get the vaccine. I will run on the trails with much less anxiety, still keeping a distance (I’ve always done that, even in the before times), but not worrying that every person I met is a loaded gun (loaded with a deadly virus). That day may be coming soon–vaccines are open to everyone as of March 30th. After I write the entry, I’m putting us on all the waiting lists.
Heard lots of birds as I ran, especially cardinals and black-capped chickadees. After reaching turkey hollow and heading up the hill on 47th, I was welcomed with a symphony of bird sounds. Not sure what all the chirps and trills and tweets were, but I loved having their motivating and distracting soundtrack as I climbed. Other things I remember hearing: the sharp, brittle crack of a branch as I ran on it, the shuffling of my feet on the gritty sand, and dog collars clanging below me on the Winchell trail and off to the right, in the grass between the river road and edmund.
I ran on the trail, above the oak savanna, the Winchell trail, and the river. It was sunny so the river was sparkling. Today I remember it looking brown. Is that right? Shouldn’t it be blue? Pretty sure I remember it as brown with a shimmer of light. Also noticed several of the benches, perched on the edge of the bluff, staring out through the bare branches to the other side. And, I took note of shadows, not mine, but the shadows of birds flying over my head. Quick flashes of dark moving past me. I can’t remember if they were big shadows or small shadows; they were just bird shadows.
I’m thinking of spending another month with Emily Dickinson, or at least partially with ED. I want to focus on the peripheral–peripheral vision, ED’s circumference, other ideas about slant/sideways/beside as they are used and expressed in poetry (and maybe lyric essays too?).
Here’s a poem not directly related to that topic, but that I found in The New Yorker and wanted to remember:
On the black wet branches of the linden, still clinging to umber leaves of late fall, two crows land. They say, “Stop,” and still I want to make them into something they are not. Odin’s ravens, the bruja’s eyes. What news are they bringing of our world to the world of the gods? It can’t be good. More suffering all around, more stinging nettles and toxic blades shoved into the scarred parts of us, the minor ones underneath the trees. Rain comes while I’m still standing, a trickle of water from whatever we believe is beyond the sky. The crows seem enormous but only because I am watching them too closely. They do not care to be seen as symbols. A shake of a wing, and both of them are gone. There was no message given, no message I was asked to give, only their great absence and my sad privacy returning like the bracing, empty wind on the black wet branches of the linden.
This reminds me of Ada Limón’s intereview on VS. podcast, where she talks about trying to let birds be birds, and that birds aren’t going to save her (or us) or serve as metaphors she thinks she needs. I love her use of the words still and stand/ing in proximity to each other. It reminds me of my favorite October poem (October/ May Swenson) when she writes: “Stand still, stare hard.” When Limón writes, “I’m still standing,” of course I first thought of Elton John’s song (ha ha), but then I read those words, maybe for the first time, not as “I’m continuing to stand” but as “I’m a still-stander or someone who is engaged in the practice of standing without moving, standing still.” Very cool. I like the idea of being a still-stander. Speaking of the word still, I like how she uses it three times. I imagine it as a hidden message: be still, as in calm, quiet, not expecting or worrying about anything, just being where you are, not moving or doing.
2.15 miles 43rd ave, north/32nd st, east/edmund, south 33 degrees tiny and sharp snow
Rain and snow coming later this morning so I tried to get out early before it started. Ended up running most of it in the snow–small, sharp pellets that felt like little knives on my face. I wish I would have worn my visor or glasses. I was concerned that the snow might cut my eyes–although it doesn’t really matter for me because my retina is already pretty thin and damaged. (Writing this in my front office, I suddenly saw a flash. Was that lightening? Then thunder. Holy shit. Snow then thunder and lightening. What’s next?)
I was the only fool out there and I loved it. I didn’t mind the weather, except for the sharp shards on my face. The rest of me was completely covered and warm. I didn’t have to worry about avoiding people. It wasn’t slippery. If all winter running could be like this–the uncrowded, not slippery paths–I would be happy.
It was dark and out of focus and other-worldly outside. And loud! The falling snow or freezing rain or sleet or whatever it was was so loud. When I got home, I did a recording.
I ran past the aspen eyes and by the house that finally sold and several trees still covered in orange leaves. I recited the excerpt from October by May Swenson that I memorized a few days ago. Favorite lines:
See, along the scarcely gliding stream the blanched, diminished, ragged swamp and woods the sun still spills into
4.1 miles river road path, north/seabury and edmund, south 33 degrees
Saw a few flurries as I ran. More coming tomorrow. Up to 6 inches. What? A nice run above the gorge. I had a clear view of the river, but I don’t remember what it looked like. Too busy admiring the bare trees and thinking about how my chest hurt slightly. Not much, just a small, dull ache. Off and on for the past five days. Smelled the toast, always slightly over-toasted, at Longfellow Grill. Heard one dog barking below me on the Winchell Trail. Imagined it running gleefully through the leaves. Was it barking at a squirrel? A tree? A swirling leaf?
Right now I’m tracking this hardcore ultra marathon taking place in Belt Buckle, Tennessee called Big’s Backyard Ultra. The runners–they started with 14–run a loop of 4. 16 miles every hour for as long as they can. Once they can’t finish the loop in an hour, they’re out. Right now, there are 2 runners left and they have just completed 216.66 miles and 52 laps. I don’t usually pay attention to ultra marathons but last year I discovered Courtney Dauwalter and I started following her on Instagram. It’s fascinating to check every hour and see how she’s doing. I can’t imagine running for that long, but I can appreciate the strange other-worldly space it would put you in for the 48+ hours you’re moving or eating or trying to quickly rest before starting again. At what point do you start hallucinating? I think she’s talked about having strange visions before. I wonder how long they will be able to go? And when the second to last person drops out, will the last person standing stop or try to make it to 300 miles? Very hard core. At some point in the past, I might have judged something like this, but now I’m just fascinated–but not nearly enough to try something like this.
Just now I was scrolling through my various feeds, trying to find a poem to post. But then I remembered I already have so many poems posted on here that I love and haven’t spent enough time with. Here’s an excerpt from one of my favorite October poems:
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.
I want to memorize this excerpt today. Is there any way that I could use this bit as inspiration for my mood poem about acceptance, accommodation? I will try!
Getting colder. Woke up this morning and turned on the heat, wore running tights under my shorts when I left the house. Did a slower first mile as a warm-up then decided to do the hill, the one where the road is closed and that is above the tunnel of trees, beside the Welcoming Oaks, four times. When I tried this last week, I attempted to sprint up the hill. This time, I just ran continuously, hoping to go a little faster with each hill. I didn’t closely check my watch, so I’m not sure if I did, but I enjoyed the run a lot more, and I didn’t have to stop. I think I’ll try this again next week, but do 5 loops instead of 4. During my warm-up mile, I listened to traffic rushing by a few blocks farther north on Lake Street. As I ran the hills, I listened to a playlist titled, “Sara 2020.” I saw the river, shining blueish-white, through the trees a few times. Beautiful. The second time I ran down the hill, I noticed a runner on the sidewalk over on Edmund. We seemed to be going the same pace. I tried to avoid looking at them instead of speeding up or slowing down. It worked. Saw a women ahead of me walking 2 dogs, talking on her phone or talking to her dogs? Not sure. A few people were wearing bright yellow shirts which glowed in the not quite overcast, not quite sunny light. Did I think about anything? I can’t remember.
MOOD: MISANTHROPIC
Continuing to work on my mood rings. Today I’m thinking about how irritating/frustrating some walkers or bikers or runners are on the trail–refusing to move over, getting in the way, speeding by too quickly. While this has always upset me, it is more dangerous now with my deteriorating vision. People’s carelessness can make it much scarier for me to run or bike. This behavior saddens me, then pisses me off, then causes me to see others as the enemy. I think I’m justified in my frustration, but I’m also bothered by own reactions. For this poem, I want to start by finding as many accounts of my irritation as I can in my running log entries. I’ll either use those as starting off point, to edit and shape, or I’ll combine them somehow into a poem–a cento? an erasure?
Here’s an account (from April 20, 2020) that doesn’t quite fit, because it’s not about me and my encounter with annoying bikers, but that I’d like to work in somehow:
read the FUCKING signs!
Yesterday, Scott, Delia the dog, our daughter, and I took a 4 mile walk around the neighborhood. Walking in the grass between the boulevard and the parkway, we witnessed a runner running in the road (on the part designated for pedestrians), getting increasingly upset as bikers (who are not supposed to bike on this part of the road) whizzed by her. When the first one passed her, she yelled “this is not the bike lane!” and then muttered to herself in anger. When the next one passed, she shrieked frantically “read the FUCKING signs!” (the city has signs posted all over the road/path identifying who should be in what lane). I could understand her anger–in other situations, I’ve been her, maybe not screaming “fuck!” but feeling that upset–but I could also see how difficult it was for the bikers, trying to find room to move when it was so crowded and when walkers were also ignoring the signs and taking over the bike paths. I’m not sure how to make this situation with crowded paths any easier, so I try to avoid it by running early, before it gets crowded.
In honor of the first day of October, I want to post part of one of my favorite October poems by May Swenson:
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.
4 miles river road, north/seabury, south/river road, south/edmund, south 48 degrees
Started my run listening to 2 male black-capped chickadees calling out to each other over and over again. Sometimes one after the other, sometimes on top of each other. I wish I could have recorded it. As they called out, I tried to remember the words to my recent poem about them. All I could think of was: “let’s do nothing—slow down/down size” and “hello? hello.”
A nice run. Forgot to greet the Welcoming Oaks as I ran by them but did notice that there were 3 or 4 cairns stacked on the ancient boulders–both the tall and short ones. In past years, there’s has only ever been one cairn stacked on the taller rock. Ran down through the tunnel of trees and checked the progress of the leaves: a full green veil. No view of the trail winding through the forest to the river. In other spots, higher up on the path, I could see brief slashes of the river through the greening trees.
Started reciting my poem of the week: Ode to My Right Knee. I struggled to pronounce “obstreperous” and had to say it a few times in my head before I got it right and could move on. Favorite lines today? I think it was: “Membrane matter-of-factly/corroding, crazed cartilage calming chipping/away as another arduous ambulation/ begins. Bone bruising bone.” Thought about how quickly I recite this poem–not franticly, but almost. Why? Is it the alliteration and how it seems shaped by the words and not any particular meter? Am I not noticing the rhythm?
After reciting the ode for a while, I decided to recite all of the other poems I’ve memorized this year. Stumbled a little in “tell all the truth but tell it slant” on the line: “As lightening to the children eased/with explanation kind”
I feel like there was something else that happened that I’m forgetting now, something that made me stop reciting for a few minutes. What was it? Oh–I remember! Running south on seabury, then the river road trail, I kept hearing this strange rubbing, almost squeaking sound. At times I thought I was causing it–a weird way I was running or some part of my jacket or ponytail brushing against my shoulder? Then I thought it might be an odd bird call or another runner’s or walker’s noisy gait. Still not sure what caused it but it was probably was me since it followed me for a lot of the time. Maybe it was my shadow? Whatever it was, it was mildly irritating.
Came across this wonderful poem about water in the collection Rose, the other day:
The sound of the 36 pines side by side surrounding the years and swaying all night like individual humans is the sound of water, which is the oldest sound, the first sound we forgot.
At the ocean my brother stands in water to his knees, his chest bare, hard, his arms thick and muscular. He is no swimmer. In water my sister is no longer lonely. Her right leg is crooked and smaller than her left, but she swims straight. Her whole body is a glimmering fish.
Water is my father’s life-sign. Son of water who’ll die by water, the element which rules his life shall take it. After being told by a wish man in Shantung, after almost drowning twice, he avoided water. But the sign of water is a flowing sign, going where its children go.
Water has invaded my father’s heart, swollen, heavy, twice as large. Bloated liver. Bloated legs. The feet have become balloons. A respirator mask makes him look like a diver. When I lay my face against his–the sound of water returning.
The sound of washing is the sound of sighting, is the only sound as I was my father’s feet— those lonely twins who have forgotten one another— one by one in warm water I tested with my wrist. In soapy water they’re two dumb fish whose eyes close in a filmy dream.
I dry, then powder them with talc rising in cluods like dust lifting behind jeeps, a truck where he sat bleeding through his socks. 1949, he’s 30 years old, his toenails pulled out, his toes beaten a beautiful violet that reminds him of Hunan, barely morning in the yard, and where he walked, the grass springing back damp and green.
The sound of rain outlives us. I listen, someone is whispering. Tonight, it’s water the curtains resemble, water drumming on the steel cellar door, water we crossed to come to America, water I’ll cross to go back, water which will kill my father. The sac of water we live in.
Last year, I posted another poem by Li Young-Lee, “From Blossoms.” Such a wonderful poet! What a great opening stanza. I’d definitely like to add that to lines I’ve memorized:
The sound of the 36 pines side by side surrounding the years and swaying all night like individual humans is the sound of water, which is the oldest sound, the first sound we forgot.
I have started to acquire many wonderful poems about water. Maybe in June, in honor of what should be the start of Open Swim, I’ll memorize a series of water poems. This one, and one by Ed Bok Lee, one by May Swenson, and one by Maxine Kumin. I might have a few more too.
4.1 miles river road, north/seabury, south/river road, south/edmund, south 53 degrees Deaths from COVID-19: 286 (MN)/ 55,118 (US)
What a morning! Rained early, then Sun! Birds! A slight breeze! Trees barely budding, glowing a yellowy green!
In the name of the Trees— And the Woodpecker— And the Breeze—Amen! (variation on Emily Dickinson)
It’s easier to bury deep the panic and thoughts about getting very sick or someone I love getting very sick when the weather is like this and the trails aren’t too crowded and it’s not too hot or too cold and there aren’t swarming gnats yet.
My run felt good this morning. I remember looking down at the river, but I don’t remember what I saw—wait, how could I forget? It was gorgeous! Not sparkling or shining, but a mirror reflecting the fluffy clouds. I imagined that the water was another world, doubled and reversed, like in May Swenson’s great poem, “Water Picture“: “In the pond in the park/ all things are doubled:/ Long buildings hang and/ wriggle gently. Chimneys/ are bent legs bouncing/ on clouds below.” Love how “In the pond in the park” bounces on my tongue. I kept glancing over at the water and admiring its smooth beauty and how it looked like a mirror. I started thinking about the Greek myth (which I couldn’t really remember) about the hunter who looked at his reflection. I looked it up just now–of course it was Narcissus. Here’s an interesting article I found that discusses him and the idea of mirrors in water–it even has a picture of Salvadore Dali looking into the water.
At some point during my run, a biker biked by, their radio blasting “Everybody Talks.” (Had to look it up, it’s by Neon Trees.) I haven’t heard this song in a few years; it was on one of my running playlists for a while. Mostly I listened to it while I ran around the track at the YWCA. Just looked and couldn’t find any mention of it in this log.
Reciting While Running: Dear One, Absent This Long While
Started reciting my poem for the week, Lisa Olstein’s Dear One Absent This Long While. Not too difficult to memorize, fun to say. I don’t remember much about the rhythms with my feet, but I do remember thinking more about the words. As I recited the line, “so even if spring continues to disappoint” I wondered, is it “spring” or “the spring”? I couldn’t remember and I tried to think about which fit better and whether or not a “the” was necessary. Also paused at the line, “She had the quiet ribs/ of a salamander crossing the old pony post road.” At first, I kept saying “has” but then I realized it made more sense to say “had.” Also, why is there a “the” in front of pony post road here, but not a “the” in front of spring? I find it helpful to think more about the choices poets make with their words. It’s fascinating and I think it can help me make a better poet who uses better words and words better–which is always my goal in writing.
I decided it would be fun to record myself reciting the poem right after finishing my run and then listening to it while looking at the poem–which words did I screw up, leave out, add? This experiment was fun, although I am still way too self-conscious speaking into my phone. I want to stop caring if people see me doing it and what they think about it. Here’s the recording:
I’d like to try recording myself saying it again tomorrow after my run. Maybe by the end of the week I won’t feel weird doing it.
In addition to reciting this new poem, I also revisited Emily Dickinson’s “It’s all I have to bring today” and the second line. I tried running with the different rhythms that I figured out in yesterday’s log. “This, and my heart beside” I was struck by how the different rhythms also changed the emphasis. In the original, Dickinson is emphasizing, “This.” Some of my rhythms, like the triplet for “this and my”, put the emphasis on heart. It’s cool how much of a difference changing the rhythm can make on the meaning–not a deep insight, but it’s fun to find ways to actually understand poetry, especially those parts of it that seem so hard for me to get.
What else happened on my run?
Saw someone walking down the old stone steps
Later, saw a dog and its human crossing the path to also walk down the old stone steps
Greeted Dave, the Daily Walker with a “Hi Dave” and a wave and, “Beautiful morning!”
Greeted another biker on Seabury
Noticed the trestle as I ran by it
Inspected the progress of the leaves below the tunnel of trees in the floodplain forest. The green veil is coming–too soon!
A few rocks were stacked on the ancient boulder at the top of the path, near the sprawling oak and at the entrance to the tunnel of trees
Greeting the Welcoming Oaks
note: I’m adding this in later, but I had forgotten about it.
About 5 minutes into my run, as I passed near the overlook and through the Welcoming Oaks, I greeted every one of them. I didn’t count, but I’m guessing it was about 10 trees? “Good morning!” “Hello friend!” “Hello!” “Hi!”
3.25 miles trestle turn around 21 degrees/ feels like 11 100% soft, uneven snow
The path was difficult again today. Soft, uneven, slippery snow. Really working those legs. Not too cold. Forgot to look at the river but did notice the floodplain forest. Encountered several other runners, at least 2 fat tires. Greeted Dave, the Daily Walker. At the halfway point stopped to put in my headphones and listen to a playlist. It made the return run much easier. After crossing under the lake street bridge smelled some foot from longfellow grill up above–almost smelled like pizza. A pizza egg scramble maybe? Ran a lot faster for the last half mile.
excerpts from Summer’s Bounty/ May Swenson
berries of Straw berries of Goose berries of Huck berries of Dew
berries of Boisen berries of Black berries of Rasp berries of Blue
melons of Water melons of Musk cherries of Pie cherries of Choke
nuts of Pea nuts of Wal nuts of Pecan nuts of Grape
beans of Jumping beans of Jelly beans of Green beans of Soy
glories of Morning rooms of Mush days of Dog puppies of Hush
I found this poem in the collected works of May Swenson which I checked out of the library a few weeks ago. She really likes to play with how the poem looks on the page, which is cool. Summer’s Bounty reminds me of some of the rhythm chants I do while running–strawberry/blueberry/blackberry. I especially like berries of Goose, beans of green, rooms of Mush and days of Dog.
What a great run! So beautiful and brown and calm outside. Tonight the first winter storm arrives and tomorrow the gorge will be white, most likely until March or April. I have loved this late fall running when the temperature is in the 30s and the paths are bare. And I will love winter running and the crunching snow, the impossibly beautiful branches painted white. Felt strong and relaxed. Ended my run at the overlook to check out the wider view then hiked down the gravel trail to the ravine. Lots of water coming out of the sewer pipe, making its way to the river. At the first ledge, the water was dribbling, sounding like the shower when I’m outside of the bathroom. At the second ledge, the water was moving more swiftly, sounding like when I’m inside the bathroom, under the shower. Really cool. As I was running, then later walking, I kept thinking about how this was probably the last bare day of the year. I will miss the way the blueish gray water complements the rich brown forest and the sweet smell of mulching leaves and the view above the rim of the gorge on the path that winds through the tunnel of trees (and doesn’t get plowed in the winter).
Your eyes are just
like bees, and I
feel like a flower.
Their brown power makes
a breeze go over
my skin. When your
lashes ride down and
rise like brown bees’
legs, your pronged gaze
makes my eyes gauze.
I wish we were
in some shade and
no swarm of other
eyes to know that
I’m a flower breathing
bare, laid open to
your bees’ warm stare.
I’d let you wade
in me and seize
with your eager brown
bees’ power a sweet
glistening at my core.
4 miles minnehaha falls loop 23 degrees/feels like 14
What a wonderful run! Love the cold air and the sun and the clear view through the trees to the river. Ran south today to the falls. Was greeted by the Daily Walker who was heading north on the path. Heard some kids playing at their school playground. Noticed someone ahead of me turning down to the Winchell Trail at 42nd. They were wearing a heavy coat and shorts. Shorts when it feels like 14 degrees doesn’t surprise anymore, having lived here in Minnesota for the last 16 years. Approaching the falls, I could hear the water still roaring. The sound of it mixed with car traffic and a leaf blower. The water is very high at the top. I wonder when it will freeze. Running back north, I passed another runner. For about a minute I could hear their footsteps behind me. Didn’t see any roller skiers today or fat tires.
Checked out May Swenson’s poetry collection, Nature, from the library the other day and found this poem:
View to the North May Swenson
As you grow older, its gets colder. You see through things. I’m looking through the trees,
their torn and thinning leaves, to where chill blue water is roughened by wind.
Day by day the scene opens, enlarges, rips of space appear where full branches
used to snug the view. Soon it will be wide, stripped, entirely unobstructed:
I’ll see right through the twining waves, to the white horizon, to the place
where the North begins. Magnificent! I’ll be thinking while my eyeballs freeze.