When I was little, I used to get overcome when I saw something I thought was beautiful. Once I ran down the hill above my house where we were working in the tomato patch to run back up with my camera to take a picture. I've lost the picture but kept the burning-lung gasping relief of getting back into the clearing and seeing the rainbow still there, holding its pose.
This picture shows me at 5 after pulling one of the roses that bloomed beside our cement block playhouse. It seemed so huge and fragrant and impossibly wonderful, I asked to have my picture made with it. My cowlick was in full flare, I'm sure I smelled like a puppy from playing outside. But that very moment had to be caught.
It is hard sometimes as an adult to feel such uncomplicated joy. But not tonight. For the past several years, I've been running in the yard in a different way, looking for things, writing them down, playing, working at the poems in my book. Now they are a thing, a real book. As tangible and exciting as that rose. Tomorrow I go into a room and share it with my family and friends and maybe some new friends and readers.
I am going to forgo all the tormented bullshit creative folks put themselves through and just offer it up like I've done before. Just hand it out and say, "Hey, can I show you something?"
Back home, the name of a road that crosses a railroad track. Here, a place to keep my verbal play-pretties and whatnot.