The dog ate my blogpost

Writing called me last night.

Writing hadn't heard from me since...
you know. Honesdale.
The workshop.  When Writing and I
spent an idyllic week
with fifteen other writers
led by three amazing women
who shook loose words
helped us pin them to slippery thoughts
all linked
in a narrative daisy chain.

Writing and I were so close all that week
flexing 
loosening up
stretching
strengthening our voc-abs
striving for puns of steel.

But
Writing said
since we got back
I never called.

I tried to explain
how intimacy can react 
with the need
to speed to minimum safe distance
as intensity retracts
from sylvan country retreat
to passive tense-city.

Writing reminded me I live on a wooded hill two hours from Honesdale.

Well. Yeah.

Writing opined
that my maples and pines are as majestic
as Highlights
and though my days are more hectic
there's always nights.

Right.

Look, Writing.
I want to be with you
it's just frightening
it can't be the same
I'm just not --

Oh BUNK! Writing shouted.
Don't look now but


 you're writing.






The Holism of Highlights

Virginia unveils dactyl
and trochee
measurement to build a poem

just as The 3-4-5 Rule
once squared a Lancaster barn
whose beams 
Linda's husband salvaged
to construct this haven

where Sonya perches
in lotus position
 and I peruse Linda's book
titled
Barn Savers.