Happy Friday Friends!
Here's my "Friday Fave,"a series highlighting fun and interesting things (products, experiences and/or ideas) that I would recommend to others.
Here's what I am digging this week:
But the Morning Comes
But the Morning Comes is a collection of poems exploring those ordinary moments that make up a life: the chores remembered, undone, at the end of the day; the child who will not be calmed; the way we become rooted in place through the living of our days; the way we are connected to those who are no longer with us. These ordinary moments are often not pretty and seldom are they neat and orderly. This collection holds the threads of confusion, insecurity and hurt that often weave throughout our days with a gentle honesty, acknowledging their existence alongside the equal truth that still, the morning comes.
This beautiful book of poetry was written by my friend Annie Demko. Annie and I were roommates years ago when we both attended a Squam Art Retreat. Since then Annie and I have kept in touch, at least monthly, encouraging each other as writers, supporting each other through our creative endeavors as we speak our voices through written word in the big wide world. It is my privilege to introduce you to Annie and her first book that is for sale on amazon.
Annie Demko lives in a small Northeast Ohio town with her husband and twin boys. On any given day you might find her learning something new, practicing being present to the tiny miracles of the everyday, or supporting those around her as they find and express their voices. More than likely there will be a book in her hand and pen and paper nearby. Annie's work has been featured in Kindred Magazine and others, and she is the author of But the Morning Comes, a collection of poems.
Enjoy this timely excerpt from But the Morning Comes, and consider purchasing your own copy of her book for your self or the poetry lover in your life:
Today it smelled like Spring;
that sodden earth-waking smell that seeps in
through closed windows and stirs something hidden inside:
stomach, bones, heart.
It pulled us outside then,
first one then two more, then another,
into the novelty of it,
giddy in our bare heads and mud-caked boots.
The trees were giddy, too,
lilacs budding and dandelions radiant among the snow-flattened grass.
Sap dripped into jugs, shining each drop,
reflecting in miniature the bare-limbed trees above
and boots sloshed and squished unabashedly with every step.
The woodstove sat neglected and dark;
but tomorrow or the day after, the cold will return;
crisp cracking ice and splinters of frost on windows
and among the grasses where the dandelions poked their heads today,
and we will rekindle the fire and wait.
But today it smelled like Spring.