Today, we had to write about being more powerful than we imagined. I immediately thought about Jack London State Park where I first confirmed the fact that I am a writer and where I have continually returned throughout my life. Here is my draft:
First, the sixth grade school field trip, yellow bus,
walking to Wolf House in giggling groups
until we found the ruins and quiet
settled in, hanging in the redwood boughs
like a low fog. Then, the need to return.
continually. Museum artifacts that
pile up in the mind: photograph of
Jack staring into camera, half-naked,
the notes pinned on clotheslines above his bed
the wheel of his homemade alarm clock and ,
Charmian’s tiny, fashionable clothes.
So many visits that the stories bleed
into one another. Here, where I am
more powerful than I ever imagined.
Even days when bones push through skin, revealing
the fragility of what lies beneath.
Visiting
Jack London State Park, Glen Ellen
Perhaps, what we can gather
here is slow coming.First, the sixth grade school field trip, yellow bus,
walking to Wolf House in giggling groups
until we found the ruins and quiet
settled in, hanging in the redwood boughs
like a low fog. Then, the need to return.
continually. Museum artifacts that
pile up in the mind: photograph of
Jack staring into camera, half-naked,
the notes pinned on clotheslines above his bed
the wheel of his homemade alarm clock and ,
Charmian’s tiny, fashionable clothes.
So many visits that the stories bleed
into one another. Here, where I am
more powerful than I ever imagined.
Even days when bones push through skin, revealing
the fragility of what lies beneath.
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