By Kit Robinson

XX

Writing in a garden

Writing on a plane

Writing on a sofa

Writing in Spain

Writing on a park bench

Writing at the end of the bar

Writing on deck

Writing in bed

Writing in the head

Writing when dead

XXI

Writing in a hotel room

Writing without thinking

Writing on the back of a proof sheet

Writing in another language

Writing left–handed

Writing in a library

Writing next to a drainage ditch

Writing a postcard

Writing to keep from crying

Writing just for fun

XXII

Writing under the influence

Writing up a creek

Writing while walking

Writing without borders

Writing on a train

Writing under water

Writing for money

Writing to music

Writing for children

Writing writes itself

By Pam Burr Smith

And then you find you love
the man on the bicycle
not him exactly, but the sight of him
holding down the road.

Those fat tires on his bike do it,
and the earnest motion of his route.
How he pedals standing up
no hurry, no sweat, no Spandex
no athlete ideas,
just the measured up and down.

He looks straight ahead,
as though there’s something
he hopes to catch sight of.
A known place that waits for him.

By Pam Burr Smith

The first circle we sat in was outside on the grass
between the house and the barn.
We occupied old chairs and sat around old tables,
took pictures of each other and laughed eating olives.
Drank wine and pear juice.

Stephen brought a poem he had written
about some reliquaries Mark had built decades ago,
and he brought color xeroxes of paintings he had made
of his own imaginary reliquaries, inspired by Mark —
sacred boxes, animated boxes, some of them with antlers or legs,
every color in the world suggested if not present.

We passed the art around as Mark slipped into the barn
and came out with the reliquaries dusted by time.
We passed them around, exclaiming in wonder
and joy, the simple gift of being alive together
outside in golden September with so much shared art.

When darkness stole in we drifted to the house.
Set up around the kitchen table and sat for a harvest supper
cooked from our dirt and sun gardens
and our heart and soul gardens.

And here, in truth, I don’t remember what we talked about.
But I can tell you where each of us sat,
how Lindsay leaned toward every word,
how Noma’s voice came with melon softness,
and Abby’s warm cadences sang us into the night.

By Karen Douglas

1. Don’t obey your mother if she sends you into the woods alone,
carrying hot food that smells tempting.

2. If you meet a wolf, don’t tell him your destination,
and knowing that he’s nearby, do not stop to pick flowers
for your granny. At the least the food will get cold.

3. If you have a daughter, please don’t send her into the woods
alone.

4. Granny, if you are old, blind, and bedridden,
ask to move out of a remote home.
If that is not possible, lock your door.