Though I’ve only met her through her wonderful, buoyant, humourous (she’s British, damnit, I’ll spell it her way….and damnit again, they actually spell humorous the same way we Americans do….), heart-squeezing words, I call her my friend. I’ve been floundering as far as my writing. Much is going on in my life. My husband has been having some health concerns, so there are doctor’s appointments and an upcoming procedure, sooner than I’ll be ready for, but I’m hopeful. My horses moved to a new barn and have celebrated one month of stall living at Fantazee Farms. So lovely Chip, the Quarter Horse I was taking lessons on and whom I’ve mentioned in previous posts, is now a part of my life. I love calling his name to say hello and seeing his kind, blazed face turn my way. Rocky, Al and I are all adjusting. Maybe they are doing a better job of it than I am, but since there really is nothing but time floating around out there, I’m sure we’ll all be fine. Just give me this right now, okay? Shh, philosophical mind, scientific skepticism, take a seat. Time is floating in this scenario, got it?
Elaine suggested I write something evocative of the sound of Appalachian Spring by Aaron Copland. What a wonderful prompt. I’m intimately familiar with this work, having performed it on numerous occasions. I even directed Aaron Copland to the restroom at a venue in New York City back in the early 1980s. He turned to our group during intermission and inquired, probably directed more to one of the young men in our group, but since he was nearest to me I eagerly volunteered. I always know where the restroom is. I managed to eke out a little verse, in response to Elaine’s prompt. So this little bauble is for her.
What Springs to Mind
Bones beneath my feet,
furrowed rows shadow-defined.
The thin leather soles of my shoes wobble,
unstable in the loosened soil.
Quivering warmth
engages my toes.
We leap
into dance,
solemn and contemplative,
raucous and joyful,
all the things.
Dust kicked up.
Dust settling.
I feel sun tingles
and no memories.
Play Ride Write 
Linda, the synchrony of everything is simply transcendent, isn’t it? I can remember feeling ecstatic while listening to Appalachian Spring, many decades ago. I’m also feeling a bit mucked up, possibly like you describe though not for the same reasons…but still…more alike than different perhaps. My writing is not happening; my barn manager (and the linch-pin to the care of my horses) is facing a serious medical procedure that will leave her disabled for most of December; our 14 horses will be looking to me and her husband to fill in the gap. And your poem seems to cut straight through all of that, to the joyous fact of being alive and “no memories”. Thank you, it’s perfect❤️
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And on top of it all, we’re in this strange pandemic and political historical holding pattern. Whew! I am so glad this post spoke to you, Susan. I have to remind myself that we do this to connect with others.
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