Posting through the wonder of Typepad’s freaky time-manipulation tools.  I can assure you I’m having a wonderful time in the woods, because we must have a platform jutting out over the hill with a tent on it by now, and we’ve probably spent hours guffawing with friends.  Ooh, maybe we’ve even managed to sleep past 6:00 a.m.!  Good times.

I started posting poems about wool and fiber arts a while ago over on Eating Poetry.  I’m going to put some of that there, since I’m out of town and I feel it’s my duty to force sweetly encourage people to read poetry, and not just once a year.  Here’s a good one, and it makes me want to go to Rhode Island.

Jerimoth Hill
by Tom Chandler

812 feet, the highest point in Rhode Island

You will not recognize any bald knob of granite
or sheer cliff face silhouetted against clouds,
in fact, you won’t realize you’re anywhere at all
except by this bullet-riddled sign by the road
that curves through these scraggled third growth
woods that was once a grove of giant pines
that were cut down for masts that were used
to build ships to sail away to the rest of the world
from the docks of Providence Harbor, their holds
filled with wool from the sheep that grazed
in the field that had once been the giant pines
till the shepherds died off and the applers took over
and grew orchards of Cortlands and Macintosh
Delicious to fill the holds of the ships that sailed
to the rest of the world from the docks of Providence
Harbor with masts made from the giant pines till
the orchards moved west along with everything
else to less glacial land and the fields became
overgrowth of berries and hobblebush crisscrossed
by walls made of stones that had slept beneath
one inch of topsoil for twelve thousand years
till the settlers found when they tried to plant crops
that this was a country that grew only rocks which
they made into walls to pen in the sheep that provided
the wool that filled the holds of the ships that sailed
to the rest of the world from the docks of Providence Harbor.