On April 12, 2017 the Wednesday Morning Writing Circle began with a 10 minute warm-up on the theme "Round Things." Here are the pieces that were written by the 7 women and men who were present that day.
Caroline Gates-Lupton
Planets and stars and the moon are all round, or at least they look like that from the deceptively flat surface of the earth. The wheels on Zee's and Daniel's chairs are round, with a half-circle of roundness capping each wheel. The way a person talks can be round, their pitch and volume traveling from high to low and back again. The letter o, not to be confused with the number zero, is very round, perfectly round, when written correctly. Sometimes my o's look like blobs on the page; sometimes they look like the circular mouth of a water bottle. The tip of this pen, where the ink comes out, is round. I guess that's why they call it a "ball point pen." I wonder, if I could somehow take that point out of the pen, would there be an actual inky ball that I could roll across my fingers?
Daniel Cooper
Golf ball — Grandpa's arms were tan from his golfing. Harold was Grandpa's name and he had round blonde curls as a child. When he was older all his hair fell out and he became bald. A bald eagle has round eyes.
Christine Sanchirico
The sun is round. I think. Except when there are those explosions that happen on the surface, that break through the roundness and burst, throwing little sparks everywhere. And us, we sit on our round earth, assuming the soft roundness of the warm sun. When in reality the sun is a fiery mass of energy, wishing that we would notice its intensity. We sit mulling our urbane lives, rocking in our rocking chairs, as we observe the sun slowly slipping below the horizon.
The full moon, apparently pink in April. Although at night its blue coolness sprinkles on the spruce tree — the branches, sharp, grab at the reflected light. For the moon, with no light of its own, alas, must surrender to the shadows, as it slips behind a cloud.
The earth. When you are way up on a hillside you can see the gentle curvature and you become a passenger on a round boat, riding the waves of space and time as you journey forward, little imagining that you really are going in circles.
Janie Nusser
Worms are round. Long and round. I noticed this las week during the flood watch. In my walk along Seneca Lake in the rain I noticed that worms had migrated from their homes on the asphalt trail. I worried about them as I tried to avoid stepping on them. Would they be able to go home when the water subsided? Would they survive on the asphalt? Each day, I checked. Some worms formed circles, curling into themselves. I thought that might be a bad sign. I stopped often to see if any of them moved. Some did, some didn't. If they died, would a worm family miss them? Did worms have belongings that would have been washed away in what, to them, was a flood? When the sun came out one day I looked even more closely. Obviously, some worms survived, for there were far fewer of their pink bodies standing out on the black trail. But, sadly, some, usually the ones curled into round pink balls, had not moved an inch in a couple of days. By the next day, their bodies were black orbs. I hope there is a worm heaven and that they have all joined their families on the other side.
Mary Louise Church
Babies' tummies. Eyes when the package is opened. Oranges full of refreshing juice. My great-grandmother's ring and my forget-me-not ring. Mouths that are ooohing over the sight of chocolate pie. The tires on my car that go round and round and round, mile after mile. The rings in my notebook that holds the last year of my creative thoughts. Holes dug in the Seneca County clay for the plants my husband has decided must be moved. The direction my thoughts go in when I'm puzzling out an annoying problem. The brim of my coffee cup with the aroma wafting over it. Ben's yellow eyes contrasting sharply with his ebony fur. The merry-go-round at the park. The path around the merry-go-round where the grass has been worn away by the pounding feet of people pushing pushing pushing. The perfect little snowballs that hit the windshield as I drove through the storm the other day. Lower case o but not upper case O. Black olives are much rounder than green ones. The smoke rings my grandpa used to blow for us kids to try to catch.
Ross Haarstad
What goes around come around. The sleeping infant, the dog at the hearth, the opening of the glass at my elbow, the sounds of the settling night. Gather round to round off the turning of the day.
Spring moon floats through last night's sky, calling me home.
This button, lost from its shirt. Or the shirt, lost from this button. Turn it around, again and again.
Children spinning as the world slips its balance, like young dervishes escaping gravity.
Mandalas: rose windows high in the gothic arches, and manhole covers.
Dimes, pennies, nickels, quarters. The vanishing tangibility of cash.
Saskya van Nouhuys
An ispod rolls up into a perfect ball when it gets startled. If that happens on a slope then it also rolls away.
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Katy and I went to the beach. We searched for the roundest small pebbles, and swallowed them.
