As I sit and write this, the temperature in the house is 80 degrees, though the air outside, in the lavender light of July nights in the Interior, is cooling to 70 or so. When I opened the cover of the laptop, it was cool to the touch, which got me thinking about temperature and all the ways it affects us–overtly and subtlely.
So, notice that part of your sense of touch that records temperature–walking through grass barefoot, for example, the hidden coolness beneath the blades while the sun on your head is simmering hot. Or the warmth of a horse’s sides, or the chill of a dog’s nose when you’re least expecting it.
Write something that includes experiencing temperature in a way that surprises you.
———————————-
I forgot to add this from Glow. Here it is:
We have lived together for 18 years
yet we continually argue about
the desired chair.
I’m the person, I bought the chair.
He’s the cat, he owns the chair.
I get up to get tea, gone momentarily
return to find orange fur snoring in my spot.
He gets up to sip water, snack a bit
returns to find the chair is claimed.
We’re both in it for the heat.
He’s crass about seeking my body heat,
blatant in his desire for my warmth,
eager to notice opportunities when
I vacate the desired chair.
Lately, I notice he makes up reasons
for me to leave the chair.
The water bowl in the kitchen has a fleck of dirt,
meow, meow, must be rectified at once.
The water bowl on the counter is 1/4 inch low,
meow, meow, must be filled at once.
The silver is showing in the bottom of the cat food bowl.
A true emergency worthy of caterwauling.
I understand that I’m being exploited,
but he’s my 18 year old kitty
so I get up to fulfill his needs,
be a good cat mama,
and come back to my chair to find it occupied.
He’s snuggled in my warmth,
innocence woven through his whiskery grin.
Of course, our relationship is not one-sided.
I admit that my feet are often cold
and in winter I slip them under him as he snoozes
knowing his orange fur channels the warmth of the sun.
Sometimes I have been known to move him,
ever so slightly,
so that I may lay my head upon a warm furry pillow
instead of the shocking cold one.
Occasionally, we compromise and we share the chair,
or we sleep head beside head and act as each other’s bedcap.
We hum in our sleep in rhythms established over 18 years
dreaming together of our years in the hot of the south
and the dreary cold of the north.
In his sleep, he stretches one orange paw and sets his claw
just so on my cheek.
His breath warm, in and out, in and out,
tickles the chill bumps on my arm.
He is 18. I save all of the cast off whiskers I find,
knowing there won’t be many left.
I will place each whisker in a row upon the desired chair
once he goes
and will set fire to it.
with him gone,
the chair will never be warm enough for me again.
Tags: poetry, summer, temperature, writing, writing prompt
Mattie's Pillow 
July 25, 2009 at 2:10 am
We have lived together for 18 years
yet we continually argue about
the desired chair.
I’m the person, I bought the chair.
He’s the cat, he owns the chair.
I get up to get tea, gone momentarily
return to find orange fur snoring in my spot.
He gets up to sip water, snack a bit
returns to find the chair is claimed.
We’re both in it for the heat.
He’s crass about seeking my body heat,
blatant in his desire for my warmth,
eager to notice opportunities when
I vacate the desired chair.
Lately, I notice he makes up reasons
for me to leave the chair.
The water bowl in the kitchen has a fleck of dirt,
meow, meow, must be rectified at once.
The water bowl on the counter is 1/4 inch low,
meow, meow, must be filled at once.
The silver is showing in the bottom of the cat food bowl.
A true emergency worthy of caterwauling.
I understand that I’m being exploited,
but he’s my 18 year old kitty
so I get up to fulfill his needs,
be a good cat mama,
and come back to my chair to find it occupied.
He’s snuggled in my warmth,
innocence woven through his whiskery grin.
Of course, our relationship is not one-sided.
I admit that my feet are often cold
and in winter I slip them under him as he snoozes
knowing his orange fur channels the warmth of the sun.
Sometimes I have been known to move him,
ever so slightly,
so that I may lay my head upon a warm furry pillow
instead of the shocking cold one.
Occasionally, we compromise and we share the chair,
or we sleep head beside head and act as each other’s bedcap.
We hum in our sleep in rhythms established over 18 years
dreaming together of our years in the hot of the south
and the dreary cold of the north.
In his sleep, he stretches one orange paw and sets his claw
just so on my cheek.
His breath warm, in and out, in and out,
tickles the chill bumps on my arm.
He is 18. I save all of the cast off whiskers I find,
knowing there won’t be many left.
I will place each whisker in a row upon the desired chair
once he goes
and will set fire to it.
with him gone,
the chair will never be warm enough for me again.