Contrails...

I was supposed to be working on a poem for my multigenre project, right? My theme was play, as in a kind of history of my family's (sometimes just my own) pursuit of leisure. Simple pleasures would be the subtitle...

I was writing out of doors, trying out the idea of a six-room poem, seated on a gazebo (or was it a pergola?) floor. A crisp blue February sky and memory of contrail-watching the week before when visiting my mother who was recovering from surgery.

Is contrail-watching a kind of play, a simple pleasure? I'm not sure...yet. I just know that in this last year I've noticed more contrails, discovered more rainbows, than in a very long time...

Sharing this work in progress with Idon'twannabeapoet adolescents the last couple of months has been a pleasure, as have the poems they have crafted in spite of themselves... Is this about play? Playing with words, maybe...

Here goes...