I think my daughter was two when I took this picture. She's not any more and today's her birthday. When she asked for a birthday poem, it sent me back to the night she was born and her father--finally able to leave the two of us safe and fine in the hospital--went home to find the basement flooded. He opened the door, he said, and the water poured past his knees. I've always thought there was a poem in there, and here it is. Or part of it, anyway. The whole thing's posted at Tupelo

The Flood the Night You Were Born

Rivers have sources, destinations, but ground water

rises, no end in sight, through walls we thought

we’d proofed against invasion. That night the flood poured in,

found its stormy and overwhelming way. First,

licking at the window sill. Now, drenching the ceiling..

I have always found it especially hard to write about my kid. I'm prickly about the possibility of invading her privacy, and scared to death of going all sloppy and sentimental. I'm too close to this one to be sure whether I've evaded those two problems or maybe plunged into a brand new one. It did feel good writing it. Time will tell. 

Down to four prompts, my friends. I'm counting on you. the donation site again (in case you can't bring yourself to scroll down) is here. You've got ideas. I know you do. A nice title. Some photo hiding on your smartphone…