As far as I can count, there should be 381 poems before this, even though I left a couple of gaps, thinking I would fill in. There would be too much filling in, so I will just pick up where I left off.
I let things lapse because just over a year ago we started getting my mother's place ready to sell, selling it, and then moving her closer to where the rest of the family is. In October, my little brother died suddenly, and in January this year, my wife's sister died.
I think stress, quiet and subliminal, wiped out any inspirations.
I used to title the writing "fast day no. such-and-such", but that strikes me as too pretentious by half.
This is a birthday poem, and it is very rough and hardly ready, but I am a rough poet, not a finish poet.
At zero-seven hundred we got underway
heading for the Blue Rushes, at which wat'ry meadow
bulrush spread we cut back the motor, almost stopped.
My grandfather was in the stern and steering
the movement of the boat by the trolling motor;
Water and epistalsis back and forth, up, down...
I feel asleep and dreamed we had returned home,
mooring at the dock, whose bleached planks
were my fathers' bones...
and cleaned the catch by the garden,
where peonies were their eyes...
and posed for polaroids
by the old resurrected cherry tree.