Today is April 1. Apparently there was a bit of snowfall on this day 22 years ago outside Mom’s window in Madison, Connecticut: One Flake Falling With one flake fallingthe snow begets a garden for the moon So April One once greenis slowly overlaid with whitethe pussy willows pausethe school bus hurries children home Some forty years ago I wroteof such a prank on such a dayI hear the same sky laughter nowand spot the sunshy preening for her bow…
Here we are at the end of another March, with most of the month’s books provided by Irish scribes. Out like a lamb? It’s definitely calmer today than last night’s tornado-watch storms. Made for a noisy evening, but one custom-made for reading. Here are the books I read in March: Book 1: Singing My Him Song by Malachy McCourt Even though he was born in New York, Malachy McCourt grew up in Limerick, Ireland so we’ll count him as one…
Here’s a poem Mom wrote about grandson Andy while he was in college. It made me think of her love for all her grandchildren. Seven in total, there was surely a balancing act to keep track of all the birthdays, accomplishments, favorite ice creams, secrets. Sharing a birthday – April 6 – with Andy, though. Now that’s a balancing act! Balancing Act Now the first fruit fallswhere last July our grandson Andysat under the apple treetelling of college classes old…
We’ve had some wild weather lately here in Indiana. Howling winds, pounding rain, flashing lightning, nearly endless thunder. And so I looked among Mom’s poetry to see if … yes, of course: Storm The day she dieda rage of weather in the nighthard rain thunder lightningthings she loved and fearedexplodedas her life hadthe daily disagreementsroared to violence of wordsthen wars of silencethe arms on both sidesthat had hugged and held each otherstopped in mid-airstopped before they struck each other ~…
It feels like the world’s gone mad, doesn’t it? In a state of anxiety, I still turn to my mother. She’s been gone for more than five years, but she left us her grace, her prayers, her poems … state of grace Spring comeswith her curriculum of clouds we walk in wind this morningto the high gate in our home garden nowthe ten red tulips rise to rally loveappropriate both sun and cloudsthe stalking starthose cisterns of the sky ~…
With Canada in the news so much lately, I took a look in Mom’s writing archives and found an interesting piece she wrote about Canada geese: Work in Progress I saw them again yesterday, feeding in the field where corn had grown all summer: Canada geese, a dozen or so, those wild and mystical squires of the sky who call us to joy and freedom when they fly above our eyes. Finding them there the first time I was struck…
It did my heart good to see that the Great Books program is still going strong. When we lived in Pittsfield, Mass., in the 1960s, Mom got involved with Great Books, attending evening group discussions about the volumes that had helped shape the Western World. According to the Great Books Foundation website: The Foundation’s stated objective is to provide the means of a genuine liberal education for all adults. By the end of the year (1949), an estimated 50,000 people…
According to weather lore: If March comes in like a lion, it will go out like a lamb. Here in Indiana, the lion was roaring all day. Here’s a poem Mom wrote in 1976, with her promise to a lion: the lion’s house lionin the spring of the yearI am going to build a house for you when it is readythe rabbits will pour champagnethe squirrels will pass around the cakesyou may borrow my emerald ribbons for the dayand carry…
For such a brief month, February’s weather sure provided a lot of reading time, from The Handmaid’s Tale to Pinocchio. Eight books in all. Here we go: Book 1: The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood Another frequently banned book. You know why? This female dystopian novel is based on the truth. It’s based on individual happenings from the history of America and around the world. It hit me a few books later in the month: female slaves were treated this…
Mom had a good friend named Ruth. She was a teacher and a writer. Once they met, they were friends for life. I’m pretty sure that’s who this poem is about, as apparently Ruth was 11 years older than Mom and passed away in 1996. Tribute I remember us both Ruthputting on perfumegirding for grace in the restless classroom This morning I anoint myself for gritin emptying our kitchen cabinetsI think of you posting my poemslike royal proclamations on your…