Bare Oaks
This morning the bare oaks explain what they’ve woven Like old men who speak with their hands. ~ [ 2120 ]
This morning the bare oaks explain what they’ve woven Like old men who speak with their hands. ~ [ 2120 ]
Obsessive description of one’s experience A child’s first breath, unrecorded, unremembered Silence isn’t silence, only Silence is ~ [ 2119 ]
Night blooms — and something else you said. It moves — through my life, yes, and in my head. ~ [ 2118 ]
I walk until the poem is done come in and write it down and tho’ I soon forget the words I live them through the song ~ [ 2117 ]
I am what I am — a star, the cherry tree — an outstretched hand. ~ [ 2115 ]
If sleep is life and death is waking up, the lightest dark and the darkest light is just enough. ~ [ 2114 ]
No TV or computer, only a piano and an old manual typewriter. All relationships were real: family, neighbors, friends; our chickens and our dogs. This was life on the farm in the Eighties before we moved to Oregon. Writing on paper, tapping out lines, learning songs on the piano. Working on the farm and in the garden. Glad when someone came by. Glad when they didn’t. And now — yes, […]
Red flowering currants, alive with bumblebees — that’s what a little warmth and sunlight will do, not forgetting, of course, the three hundred sixty-four days that led to this moment. Don’t you just love them? she said, and we stood talking for a while. My mother had dementia. I flew to Massachusetts every two to three months. There goes a hummingbird — the earth turning all the while. ~ [ […]
Far to go, little to say — and the going, and the saying, are one. * Note: This might or might not be the first entry of a new section. We shall see. I’ve also enabled comments; that decision, too, remains up in the air. Then again, aren’t we all? ~ [ 2111 ]
Left foot, right foot . . . home from a walk, the quiet of a power outage. ~ [ 2093 ]