A brother performs his creations. His sister captures hers.

Taken in a tent, in Joshua Tree National Park, by Lauren M. Whaley and her broken light meter.

Lauren's latest:

Originally published here.

But they haven't strayed far from the agave plant yet, so we haven't asked them to leave.

My guess is that they think they've hit the sugar sap jackpot, and they're happy where they are. I hope so. Having just finished reading Ender's Game for the first time, I have a stronger desire than ever to live in peace with insects.

(Photo credit: Lauren Whaley)

That's a headline. Or it will be someday. Apparently.

A few weeks ago, Lauren submitted a story to Patch.com. It's an adaptation of a radio/photo profile she produced last winter on an 85 year old amateur woodworker. In her correspondence with Patch, Lauren called the story Ed's Workshop.

On Friday, she got this email:

The links don't work. She hasn't been paid yet. But you gotta love a title with (probably) accidental Pauly Shore connotations.

Last week, Lauren officially agreed to marry me. The next day, after making a few phone calls, I sent the engagement news to a handful of friends over email. A few wrote back and asked for the proposal story. I obliged. And most replies to the story were kind and loving (and hugely appreciated) but also unremarkable. And then there was this one:

A GW Bush reference maybe? Hmmm...

As Lauren mentioned earlier, we saw Grace Potter and the Nocturnals rock out in bathrobes at 8 o'clock this morning.

They didn't sing about Alice, but we didn't need a cover to feel The Airplane's spirit.

Just letting the world know that Lauren brought her wigs to LA. Just in case.

(thank you David Swift, for shooting diagonally)

For a recap of the trip from Jackson (pics included), click here.

Bumble bees want to be nice. And they are. They won’t sting you if you just look at them. The only times they sting you are when you try to grab them. Or, when you step on them. Or, when you put them in your mouth. So, don’t catch them or walk on them. Or try to eat them. ‘Cause you’ll be stinged. They like when people look at them. And they like looking at us.

Or so says a three year old.

An accidental metaphor? For everything?

Thank you, Lauren, for listening carefully and taking notes.

I found these words, scribbled:

morning run in NH

New England heart
sparkling dew
magic mist
endless fence post
squishy mud
expect a rainbow
ferns you want to lick, eat

And turned them into these, an email to the original's author:

morning fun on earth

dew brings the heat
ferns misty in magic mud
endless
like a rainbow
or a fence
posts sparkling
and squishy
to eat

Mr. Stanley, my romantic poetry and travelwriting professor, would tell me that isn't a poem. Not yet, anyway. It's a reaction. An impression. A clever joke (his adjective, one I've never really been able to incorporate). A beginning. A draft.

The poem comes later. When every letter, every comma or capital not included, is a choice. A poem is a poem when it's fully intentional.

Stanley and I argued about that sometimes. What about jazz?, I'd ask. He'd shake his head and write the same comment on every piece of writing I ever gave him: It'll get better if you spend more time on it.

He's certainly more right than I was.

And that, above, is not a poem.

But it does have an alternate title: lick my heart, baby.