Augverno 2008

My friend Mary Beth (from WritingAnotherStory) and I are taking our love for Nanowrimo and our life-goals of writing a verse novel and putting them into action this month!

Word count five days in:

4,118 / 25,000 (16.5%)

This is the first night I've been done before eleven! Yay!

Plot: something along the lines of The Secret Life Of Walter Mitty.

I had intended to post full excerpts here, but with/without edits and all, it's a merrible tess. This is one of the better parts so far though:

On just such a rainy day,

thick with mist

soft in air,

turning my valley

shades of blue

and of green

that go beyond any

words in my head.

Cerulean, maybe

Bottle green but

warmer, thicker,

softer in the infant

shades of cinnamon fern

and the first tiny palms

of tulip poplar.

But, no, older than that

Old like the Indian mounds

aching with grass

that we pass on the

main road to town.

Old like campfires

and strong mountain women

gathering nuts to

feed their children.

Like dinosaurs even.

Like music, it is --

hundreds and hundreds

years worth of music,

rising together,

called by the rain

from the depths of these red hills.

I stand at their feet,

the tall wet grass

soaking my skirt

clinging to my bare legs

until I have to tug

to make it let go.

But for now,

I let it cling.

Looking down

my sandals are gritty

with soil, looking

as much a part

of the burr-weed

and star-eyed asters

as two feet of clay.

Looking up

beyond the soaring

incline of glowing

rain-drenched greenery

up to where the cotton

clouds rend and sky

comes through, though

you can scarcely tell

it for the sun, ribboning

down in lemonade rays,

looking as much a part

of heaven as Daniel

and his sea of glass.

There is a verse --

you've heard me

quote it before --

in the Psalms of David

(the ruddy shepherd-poet)

that talks of God

reaching down

and at His touch,

the mountains smoke.

I know this

I live it.

Standing here, with

the blue mist around

my ankles, I pray.

If You would touch

these mountains,

Lord, if you know

the stars by name,

If I mean more to you

than the sparrows

that sing so sweet

You would not

forget me here,

beneath the pines?

[mine - no copying]

Back with more later. For now? Bed! Or life. Or that knitting project that's supposed to be felted in a month.... Yeah, that.