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Cold


The cat curls himself into the hollow of my knees
Under the blanket that kept my mother warm before she died.
Soft
Sage green
with a pattern of leaves,
the tones of his brown fur
echoing the shades.
I warm my hands on him
under the serendipitous guise of petting,
as he doesn’t seem to mind.
We are still
becoming accustomed
to one another.

Yesterday’s blues have turned to gray,
pure white piling
up along pines and trails,
the Spring of Deception
showing itself in a freeze of glory.

My coffee now only remembers warmth
but I still drink it.
It is not worth
disturbing the cat
to heat it up again.

Today’s gratitudes:

  • That A is moving into a more permanent place today
  • Warm fuzzy socks
  • Classical music
  • Spaghetti squash

On Wednesdays, I’ll be introducing you to poets that I favor. Today’s poet: Seamus Heaney

Good-Night

A latch lifting, an edged den of light
Opens across the yard. Out of the low door
They stoop into the honeyed corridor,
Then walk straight through the wall of the dark.

A puddle, cobble-stones, jamb and doorstep
Are set ready in a block of brightness.
Till she strides in again beyond her shadows
And cancels everything behind her.

Daily gratitudes
Shortcuts
Book ideas
Finding what I’m looking for in the basement
Finn, Sandy, and Ziggy
That when it hails and the sun is shining, it looks like diamonds are falling from the sky

You start
with my neck,
turning tendons into tangled iron bars.

You move
next
slowly
up,
slipping a shadow cap of pain
on my skull.

You creep
towards my temple,
signaling your arrival
with spot flashes of stars,
bright against the white walls.

You mock
the light I love,
driving me into a darkness
that still won’t quiet the
throb.

You linger
as an unwanted guest,
your departure date
a well-kept secret.

You will
go,
and I will be left with a
faded reflection of the ache
you so generously bestowed.

I will
not miss you when you’re gone.

Daily gratitudes:
Conversations with K
Teddy the goober dog
The menagerie
Lentil soup
Dreams with dead friends



Come over to http://www.writerinthepines.com to read, and follow.

Love,
Me

You know you want to read it….come on over and give the new site a follow!

Here’s a link to today’s post:

I’d love to see you over there.

Sealongings

Waves are formless and endless,
Their gentle rush and lion’s roar
A sound that fills ears, shells, and spirits.

I think that people who complain
That the sea is too loud,
That it disturbs their slumber,
Must be missing a small piece of their soul.
Perhaps the sea has swallowed it and
has yet to give it back.

It holds mine in its fathoms.
It lets me breathe unencumbered beneath the surface.
It rolls in a rhythm that matches my heartbeat.
It serves as a grateful vessel for my tears.
It cools and feeds my passions.

Far away, I hear that gentle rush
In conch shells on the shelves of coffee shops
And in dreams.
Always in dreams.

08290033
Anegada, British Virgin Islands.

Quote of the Day: “The voice of the sea speaks to the soul.” — Kate Chopin

Daily gratitudes:
Birds in the trees
Mr. Man’s paw on my knee
Kelsea’s writing and her sense of justice
New tickets leading to new adventures
Not having to shovel my sidewalk

 

 

What Makes A Poem?

The question is the title.
Is it the sentiment?
The words?
The lay of lines?
The rhyme? Now unrequired?

I can say
That
This is the longest I have ever gone
Without seeing my daughter
Since the day she was born.

That knowledge hit my heart
This morning
Like the sharp quill of a feather
And became a poem.

I could
Have written
Those same words
– All these words –
In a sentence or two.

You
Would have read them
But somehow, it would not
have been the same.

Those words,
that feeling,
deserved
a poem.

IMG_6480
Ventanas al Mar, Cozumel, Mexico.

Quote of the Day: “If you want to understand any woman you must first ask about her mother and then listen carefully. Stories about food show a strong connection. Wistful silences demonstrate unfinished business. The more a daughter knows about the details of her mother’s life – without flinching or whining – the stronger the daughter.” — Anita Diamant

Daily gratitudes:
Blooming trees
The mountains today
New travels
Lighthouses
Egg Salad Diabolo with MKL
When Mr. Man is happy to see me

Springs
No matter how broken
Winter leaves me
I find that
Like a bough
Thought killed by the chill,
I recover
Under the warmth
Of the spring sun.

IMG_8476
Cheyenne, Wyoming.

Quote of the day: “Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts. There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature — the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after winter.” — Rachel Carson

Daily gratitudes:
Working to make things work
That my bout of illness has passed
Faith
Harris Tweed
MKL

40 Years At Sarah P. Duke

Come spring, the siren calls of memories,
Whispers in the wind saying, “Come home,
Come home, the daffodils are rebellious in bloom,
And the pansies of the long gravel walk
Yearn for your gentle touch on each velvet petal.”
Those short stone walls clamber for the feel
Of my shoes balance-walking down them.
The wisteria palace is approaching bloom, vines
Enveloping the gazebo in fragrant violet magic
Promising blosson clusters and later, velvet seapods.
I stand at the edge of the steps, waiting for the view to
Empty of souls, so I can survey my own
Private kingdom.
A descent to the fountains, tricking cherubs
Where my father used to scoop coins from the shoulder-deep pools
Of wishing wells for us on hot summer days.
He is gone now, but the fountains still sparkle.
Criss-crossing rows of bark mulch paths
Through beds of tulips and butterly bushes
Into shade beds of hostas and lilies of the valley.
Still descending, still cross-crissing
To the koi pond teeming with water lilies and dragonflies,
Then up the slate stones, slightly slippery, as they pass
The trickle-down waterfall
To the big sitting rock – the peasant’s view of the garden kingdom.
Down across another little waterfall, through the dark shade
Of climbing magnolias
Into the big meadow beyond
Where Sarah and I drank little bottles of pink champagne
And lay among the dandelions discussing philosophy and world affairs
And boys
While basking in the sun and avoiding the bees.

This haven, with its empty grass hills, where I snuck in
With high school boyfriends for moonlit make out sessions,
With sky-high pine trees where I gathered greenery
For the mantel at Christmas, filling paper grocery bags
And leaving with cold, resin-stained fingers,
With its Japanese garden and arching bridge
Redolant with peace and solitude.

The gardens call to me, with memories of roses and sweat,
Sweetness and spring.

IMG_8247-001
Durham, North Carolina.

Quote of the Day: “If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.” — Marcus Tullius Cicero

Daily gratitudes:
Feeling some better
A talk with Charlotte
My voice when it sounds like Lauren Bacall
Spring coming
Soft blankets

 

 

 

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