What of Little Red’s mother?
She had to know the child would wander,
had to know the natural curiosity,
the inborn politeness that would not scorn a stranger,
toothy as he was, and oily with charm.
Did she lie awake at night,
plotting how to protect her child
from wolves and poison and brambles?
And when the strange news reached her,
of her child and her mother
rescued from the ravenous belly of death,
did she quake with the knowledge
of all she could not protect them from?
(We’re practicing poetry revisions in Creative Writing right now. This is one that will need the scalpel, but I might be able to pull something out of it. Yesterday, I took one of my poems from a few days ago, threw it up on the Smart Board, and did some revisions right in front of them. They were really quiet. I hope that it gave them courage to work their own poems into shape.)
1. Re-vision. Re-shaping. Re-creating. Re-making. Re-forming. (I am thinking that Visions and Re-Visions might be the name of my next book. I wonder if it’s been done already.)
2. Fifty miles to the gallon. I have only driven the Prius for a day now, but I have become what Jon calls a hyper-miler–I drive to get the good mileage.
3. Zesty greens
4. The yellow tulips outside the office at school. Red stripes through the petals.
5. Phoebe and white-throat sparrow, plaintive and insistent.
May we walk in Beauty!