Monday, October 19, 2015


Part of the 90+ acres donated in memory of my friend's parents.
I write with a friend on Sunday mornings. She calls with a prompt, we write for half an hour and then I call her and we read aloud to each other what we’ve written. This morning’s prompt was to think about how we heal our hearts. I think we do it with our stories. Yesterday I attended a dedication of some land donated to my town’s Land Trust. Two of the daughters of the original owners - girls I grew up with, played on that land with, became friends with - traveled some distance to be there. I had not seen one since high school. The elder, the sister who’d been my classmate since elementary school, I’d not seen in 47 years. They came for tea on Friday. On Sunday we visited their old homestead for the dedication ceremony. Here’s what spilled from me this morning in response to the healing prompt.

Day 1

An old friend, absent 47 years.
The shock to the heart of
a familiar face in an unfamiliar setting,
the past sitting here sipping tea with me
in my present surroundings.
A hug, some tears.
A great spilling of memories,
words tumbling over themselves.
Do you remembers and I didn’t know that!s—
The unsuspected hole in the heart
that only stories can fill,
new stories of old memories.

How like a bubble is
the place we inhabit ,
floating in our thoughts,
peering through transparent walls,
making up tales about what we see.

The universe is full of bubbles.

Day 2

A piece of familiar land,
a dedication ceremony.
An early fall day of dropping temperatures
and sudden snow squalls
ending in gentle, sunny stillness.

In between,
stitching the past to the present,
a spate of words recalling famous parents,
a whole philosophy of living
summed up and engraved
on a plaque on a rock in the woods
where, as children,
we played without paying attention
to fame.

Day 3

Bubbles burst.
New ones form.
An emptying is always required
before a refilling.

New memories forged on the porch of old ones.
New stories to heal the heart
that longs without warning
for old times,
old places.

A reunion of moments,
a union of yesterday, today, tomorrow.
A promise to return,
another to keep in touch,
a third to remember.

The way to heal one’s heart
is to fill the hole with stories.

Monday, October 05, 2015


It isn’t just the cold
nor the dearth of cricket song
nor the waning green

there’s a palpable feel to the quality of air
a lightening, a crisping
as autumn starches and irons

In the absence of birdsong
the crow and the goose play their voices
like bass instruments

rending the silence
stirring the water, rustling the woods—

the days unfold on wings and raucousness