I wake from what I suppose is a writer’s nightmare. Inexplicably, someone has altered the pages of the book I’m writing to emoijis — gibberish where I’ve labored so long to string together sense and beauty.
Mid-November, and the nights are long. We play Battleship, Boggle, Trouble. The library books pile up around the couch.
This time of year, I’m reminded of Vermont’s great extremes. By five, dark has set in fully. In summer, we’d be thinking of heading for an after-work swim. Walking yesterday, I thought of the wild forget-me-nots sprinkled along that roadside in summer. White, pale blue, gray, black: winter’s palette. Inside, we bake phyllo with salty cheese and roasted red peppers — not so much habit or tradition, but simply the thing to do.
just when I think nothing is left alive
the bare branches of the trees
rise up, beckoning
— Marilyn Krysl
3 thoughts on “Red Star”
I dreamt last night I was directing Meryl Streep in a public service commercial about fire safety. It was a disaster given that we didn’t have a script or camera equipment or a director who knew what he was doing.
‘Tis the season for strange dreaming!
Yes, a writer’s nightmare! I dreamed not too long ago that I was working on my food column and all the words literally fell off my paper! I tried to sweep them up, but they turned into fruit flies…