Let The Sun Rise on Us – This week’s Substack newsletter features a poem!

As we learned from the musical "Hair," we should always seek to "Let the sunshine in!"

Do retired people miss the meetings, waiting for their phones to chime a reminder to sit down to Zoom?

Today I get to attend or host nine meetings!

Once at the 20^th anniversary celebration of the UC Davis journal on writing and the teaching of writing, titled Writing on the Edge, then Chancellor Vanderhoef biked over to join us for the outdoor ceremony. He wasn’t obligated or even formally invited, but he wanted to show his support, standing in the back, his trouser-protecting bike clips in hand.

He joined us for only about half an hour, but everyone there remembers his consideration. Aesop reminds us that “No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.”

As I write this from an Elk Grove office building, two women about 30 feet from me have taken a break from their laughing to harmonize with a Reggae song on the loudspeakers. Like an act of kindness, singing out loud can be its own reward.

As has been pointed out to me, kindness is always invited, but that’s not always the case with singing.

When I have no time to write a newsletter, I look to a recent poem and quote it the way that columnist Bob Dunning quotes emails from his readers.

For instance, as you can see from what follows, every poem I write about my Kate, the super-mom to our three children, becomes a love poem, even if its prompting occasion was our most recent holiday, Mother’s Day.

Let the Sun Rise on Us

A swatch of auburn rises,

visible even though the curtain’s drawn,

my eyes adjusted to the night,

but never may they adjust to this.

Let the sun rise on us.

How she pauses and stretches,

framed like a canvas in the doorway,

tall and drowsy, a whisper of fabric

moving as she moves, unhurried.

Let the sun rise on us.

See her big eyes, wide and wise,

still glinting from the night’s stars,

catch my glance in the morning hush,

her half-smile blooming like a secret.

Let the sun rise on us.

A horizontal lump, small as a shadow,

the French bulldog snores

softly before the dawn, dreaming

of even more sleep against her side.

Let the sun rise on us.

I reach for her long frame,

but a finger to her lips casts a spell,

keeps me rooted under the covers

that, even in sleep, she is readjusting.

Let the sun rise on us.

We share the same dreams

through the long hours of silence,

our synchronous breaths whispering

that love is made of listening.

Let the sun rise on us.

I wish for this simple night,

the best of all nights,

to linger in our earned stillness,

but still,

let the sun rise on us.

Happy belated Mother’s Day to all the mom readers of this newsletter, including Terry, Pat, Heghnar, Kris, Elaine, Kerry, Kate, Caitlin, Myra, Myrna, Peggy, Ellen, Leah, Diane, Angie, Carrie, Kathy, Niki, Kari, Lois, Sherri, Lisa, Yvonne, Lynne, Christine, Brook, Meagan, Donna, Michelle, Janet, Julie, Kim, Jennifer, Bridget, Amy, Ellen, Maria, Anjali, Tia, Susie, Larisa, Wrye, Wendy, Iris, Gena, Nina, Mary Jeanne, Janelle, Laurel, and Kathy. Forgive me if I left off the names of any moms who regularly read this newsletter!

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Best,

Dr. Andy

P.S. Three crop questions from last week’s quiz:

1. Is the 2021-dollar value of all crops grown worldwide closest to $100 billion, $1 trillion, $10 trillion, or $100 trillion?

2. Compared to wheat, is sorghum typically higher or lower in protein content?

3. What G word do we use for the sort of gardening that involves raising food, plants, or flowers on land that the gardeners do not have the legal rights to cultivate?

P.P.S. Poetry Night on May 15 features Mary Mackey! Join us on the Natsoulas Gallery roof at 7 PM.