Dear Reader,
The travel laundry is washing. The bags, books, and items accumulated over the past few days of dunes traveling have been (mostly) put away.
For once I remembered to reapply sunblock often enough to avoid a sunburn!
Eventually, I will have to find new homes for Word Raccoon’s latest nature treasures, which I’m sure she will demand showing you when I find them all. They’re in my shoes, in the cooler, in shorts pockets, and definitely some are still in the car.
For now, this.
While emptying my desk for painting (updated photo on that project to come after I’ve finished with the desk decor), I ran across a journal I almost put in the “donate” box. I asked Stanley just to be sure, since he’s always such a fan of decluttering.
“I wouldn’t,” he said.
I told him it wasn’t my aesthetic, and that it barely had any pages in it.
He harumphed and said maybe I didn’t like it, but it looked tailor made for Word Raccoon. (I knew they were in kahoots!)
So it became my “bad poetry lab,” a low-stakes place to record at the very least notes.
I took it to Lake Michigan’s edge, sat in the sand on a beach towel, and wrote.
And wrote.
And wrote.
Honestly, I only remember one line from it all, and it’s a heavy one, so I won’t repeat it here.
After the day’s activities, after dinner, WR and I went to the sun room where we had written on our writing retreat in December, and first, we took in the differences a season had brought. Then we wrote.
And wrote.
We noticed the trees and the river. We howdy-do’ed the ferns.
And…while we were writing, we received an acceptance of a poem we’re really proud of, “To My Grown Children,” to be published in September 2026 by The Listening Eye, Kent State’s journal. I’m so honored and grateful. I can’t wait!
It’s a poem (not to give it all away) that basically says, my grown babies, my writing is your heritage, and you have every right to read it, but you might not want to read some of it.
But it’s said, I hope, with more humor, starch, and sass than that.
This morning, Word Raccoon and I woke up before breakfast and wanted one last writing session on this not-writing-retreat. We spent an hour in awe of what was out the window, looking every which way for a path so we could go sit among the fawns, the cardinals and sparrows, the squirrels, always squirrels.
We asked ourselves how logs can look more alive in the summer. I could go on about the surroundings, but I’ll just add some photos.
Select poem titles from this weekend:
– Disproportionate Pique (Bitchin’ Crackers)
– She Has Your Eyes
– At a Distance
– I Have Crossed the Rubicon
– Tension in the Arms
– Same View, Different Season (obvious place holder)
– You’re Not Supposed To
– My Heart, a Child
– Dig Into Flesh
There are only two pages left in the journal. I had hoped for no good reason to finish it tonight, but unless inspiration outsprints my tiredness, I’m not sure I will.
Sometimes tiredness is its own inspiration.
Wishing you,
Drema
dremadrudge.com 