Friday morning, Ginger went trudging off into the snow to write a poem.
She had asked me the night before to make sure she got up at seven (an unusually early hour for Ginger), and I did, expecting her to fall right back to sleep after I woke her.
But she did not.
Instead, she donned her bathrobe, grabbed a notebook, and slipped out the front door.
She stayed out just long enough to greet the sun, write a poem, and net a few stares from passing motorists.
Here is the resulting work (exactly as it appears in Ginger’s notebook):
hevy piles of snow, mud has dirtyed it to Brown, my Back yard.
A very apt description.
From the dining room table, getting ready to eat popcorn and watch a documentary on the “Monuments Men” (with whom CPT America and I are currently obsessed),