ERJ, my eastern redbud that I’ve written about multiple times on my blog, has been slowly dying all summer and now into the fall. Strangely, he had the most beautiful blooms this year he’s ever had. This past spring, I mean. He’s got borers. They did their damage. I tried everything, but I couldn’t save him. I knew I wouldn’t be able to, but I tried anyway. The loss of this tree really hurts. Some parts of his branches are still pliable, but most are brittle. The bark now splitting from lack of life. But I noticed today a bright spot of pink. And then another. Arising from the broken, cracked bark and perched alongside seedpods as brittle as dead leaves, ERJ blooms one last time.
ERJ – photo taken October 10, 2025 ERJ – photo taken October 10, 2025
This ain’t for the best My reputation’s never been worse, so You must like me for me We can’t make Any promises now, can we, babe? But you can make me a drink
Dive bar on the East Side, where you at? Phone lights up my nightstand in the black Come here, you can meet me in the back Dark jeans and your Nikes, look at you Oh damn, never seen that color blue Just think of the fun things we could do
This ain’t for the best My reputation’s never been worse, so You must like me for me (Yeah, I want you) We can’t make Any promises now, can we, babe? But you can make me a drink
Is it cool that I said all that? Is it chill that you’re in my head? ‘Cause I know that it’s delicate (delicate) Is it cool that I said all that? Is it too soon to do this yet? ‘Cause I know that it’s delicate
Third floor on the West Side, me and you Handsome, you’re a mansion with a view Do the girls back home touch you like I do? Long night with your hands up in my hair Echoes of your footsteps on the stairs Stay here, honey, I don’t wanna share
This ain’t for the best My reputation’s never been worse, so You must like me for me (Yeah, I want you) We can’t make Any promises now, can we, babe? But you can make me a drink
Is it cool that I said all that? Is it chill that you’re in my head? ‘Cause I know that it’s delicate (delicate) Is it cool that I said all that? Is it too soon to do this yet? ‘Cause I know that it’s delicate
Sometimes I wonder, when you sleep Are you ever dreaming of me? Sometimes when I look into your eyes I pretend you’re mine all the damn time
Is it cool that I said all that? Is it chill that you’re in my head? ‘Cause I know that it’s delicate (delicate) (Yeah, I want you) Is it cool that I said all that? Is it too soon to do this yet? ‘Cause I know that it’s delicate (delicate)
Is it cool that I said all that? (Isn’t it?) Is it chill that you’re in my head? (Isn’t it, isn’t it?) ‘Cause I know that it’s delicate (isn’t it delicate?) (Yeah, I want you) Is it cool that I said all that? (Isn’t it?) Is it too soon to do this yet? (Isn’t it, isn’t it?) ‘Cause I know that it’s delicate
A writer needs a muse, and I had a good one. Sometimes I think the inherent non-fictionality of life interrupts the ability to create fiction – at least for me. Life can be overwhelming, amazing, tragic, sacred, wholly unexpected. I feel life’s events deeply and I always have. So I have looked to my old writings for inspiration, and perhaps to remind myself that there was a time when I created things worth reading, that other people enjoyed reading, that I was someone who created ideas, found peace in words, and hope in imagination.
I found one poem in particular that is not fiction, coincidentally, but about a dream I had several years ago. The poem still resonates with me, and I want to share it here. I am a thinker, a dreamer, a moody sarcastic reluctant romantic. I am a writer. I am me. I can be no other.
* * *
Last night I dreamt of him
He was the house I longed to get to
in the middle of shallow, red clay-tinged, gently rippling water
Gray and tan smooth pebbles and jagged tiny stones surrounding it
Standing solidly on a shallow pier that I couldn’t reach
He was the brown shingled home
with a simple frame and construction
cozy and inviting
but surrounded by that shallow clay-colored water on all sides
I circled like an agitated, frightened puppy
whimpering to myself
Standing
alone
exposed
frustrated
bewildered
on some solid ground I could not see
Placing my bare, dirty, cold wet feet on the hard rocks and pebbles
but jerking them back just as quickly
when the rocks shifted
Afraid to step forward but determined not to step away altogether
I got no closer
Fear rose up inside of me as I circled the house
I longed for someone to help me
but the house was empty
As I fought the wave of frustration and panic
a wooden walkway appeared
It was not there before
A simple walkway that led to the front door
and bypassed the rocks and water
I quietly exclaimed relief and pulled my feet from the rocks one last time
I made my way on the walkway
cautiously but quickly
I kept my focus on the wood planks beneath my feet
I saw that there was one simple step up to the door from my walkway
“It's Amy,” I said. 