Living the Writerly Life - "Seven"

Running, for me, is writing inspiration.  Poems spring into my head as my feet keep rhythm on the pavement. July is my month off from school, the perfect time to live as a reader and a writer, filling myself up before another year leaps into sight.

Thanks to my sister Errin and to all the tweets from the Boothbay Literacy Retreat for inspiring my running and my writing on this dreary Saturday morning!

"If you want to be an authentic writer you have to live an authentic life." @kwamealexander #bblit16 (from Allison Jackson, @azajacks)

Seven

Radar shows green, yellow, orange.

My seven miles can wait.

PJs on.

Pinterest browsing.

Planning painting projects

for a rainy Saturday afternoon.

Text from sister. 

“Ran 8!  Rain wasn’t bad.”

New plan:  I’ll do 3.

On the treadmill.

In my dry garage.

Shoes stare from across the room.

Jacket sighs heavily from the back of a chair.

Hat rolls its eyes.

Fine.

Miles 1 and 2 glide by in soft dribbles of rain.

Cool breeze.

Whispering leaves.

Dripping branches.

Watch check at Mile 3.24.

Tree roots slurping succulent rain,

Shoes graze puddles,

Tiptoe, skip, leap through.

Smile creeps in.

Mile 4

Red geraniums lean thirsty faces skyward,

heads drinking slowly.

Rain drips off the brim

of my ocean-stained Cape Cod hat.

Wet tracks trickle down my cheeks,

lips savor  the salty streams.

Mile 5

Wet cotton-tails patter across the sidewalk,

disappearing into long grass.

Slogging uphill.

Yellow rubber duck boots dash from a garage,

a fit of giggling blonde curls disappear back into the dry.

Feet squish,

slapping through puddles,

waves of wet oozing through.

Mile 6

Umbrella-bearing

glum-bearded man

waits for the bus.

No runners.

Wave at a smiling woman,

peaking out  from a rusty blue Toyota,

who stops to let me cross.

Mentally begin pruning trees,

redesigning landscaping,

painting front doors and

replacing outdated shutters.

Mile 7

Jacket hanging heavy with rain

Shirt, shorts, socks, soaked.

Sidewalk narrows

through soft, green leafy branches -

painting my hair, my face, my thighs.

Turn down Limestone.

Springy grass stands tall,

Flowers nod sated heads.

Home.

Sweet 7.07 miles.

Done.