Shouts of Forsythia

Shawled in morning fog,
The distant mountain sleeps -- no
Shout disturbs its peace.



The shoots of the forsythia, thick with yellow flowers, are like fireworks exploding, spiralling outwards in joyous abandon. I think that the sight of all that golden glory should rightfully be accompanied by glad shouts -- something like the verse from Job --"The morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy."

I wasn't exactly shouting for joy this morning when I had to leave the house early to get to Isothermal Community College in Spindale, NC for a writers' workshop, but I was rewarded with the sight of the fog lying in a thick layer across the mountain immediately to our east, muted in monochrome grays and punctuated with the bright spires of forsythia in the foreground.

The rest of the day held more rewards --getting to attend a terrific workshop by the novelist Ashley Warlick, having a group of enthusiastic and talented participants in the workshop I taught, spending time at lunch with more folks who've been bitten by the writing bug, and then hearing the other presenters read from their works: Ashley, from a recent novel; Joseph Bathanti, from a collection of his short stories, and Cathy Smith Bowers, from several of her books of poetry. All wonderful -- all inspiring.

What a lovely way to spend a rainy day!