Independent Projects

AGENDA:
Continue to work on projects.

Asher has morning reflections.  See comment section.

Rita Dove poem
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La Chapelle. 92nd Division. Ted. Rita Dove

(September, 1918) This lonely beautiful word                                                 means church and it is quiet here; the stone walls curve                         like slow water. When we arrived the people were already gone, green shutters latched and stoops swept clean. A cow lowed through the village, pushing into our gloves her huge sodden jaw. It’s Sunday and I’m standing on the bitter ridge of France, overlooking the war. La Guerre is asleep. This morning early on patrol we slipped down through the mist and scent of burning woodchips (somewhere someone was warm)                                                             into Moyenmoutier, cloister of flushed brick and a little river braiding its dark hair. Back home in Louisiana the earth is red, but it suckles you until you can sing yourself grown.                                     Here, even the wind has edges. Drizzle splintered around us; we stood on the arched bridge and thought for a moment of the dead we had left behind in the valley, in the terrible noise. But I’m not sad—on the way back through the twigs I glimpsed in a broken windowbox by the roadside mums: stunned lavenders and pinks dusted with soot.                                                 I am a little like them, heavy-headed, rough curls open to the rain.

Sarafina, the musical