A scheduled writers meeting could have gone awry Sunday afternoon. We arrived to find a sign on the door: the cafe was closed due to maintenance issues.
When we retreated to our second option, the establishment was full to overflowing: no parking, no tables.
The weather, however, was beautiful. November eighteenth, sunny and mild. An unexpected blessing.
So we pulled two of the metal outdoor tables side-by-side, ordered food and drink, and commenced writing. Only as the sun slanted westward and cast us in shade did we finally go inside. By then, however, the cafe had emptied, and we could spread out our notebooks and computers, and warm ourselves by the fire.
In one of our writing lulls, when we shared ideas and quiet conversation, I recalled this poem, written extemporaneously on another autumn afternoon:
Those Times Between
Thank You, God, for mild spring
those times between when we can catch our breath
unhindered by extremes of cold or heat,
there is a rest waiting
if we will but let go those things we clutch
their spring colors transform to autumn hue.
only truly lived free.
March 25, 2007
c. E. Easter