the streambank

another death . . .

I follow a path

thick with oak leaves

turning into soil,

nourishing the roots

rose hips 

and holly berries 

glistening 

in deep green hedgerows

winter quickens its wings

the brook

vanishes beneath the earth

to rise again

in a spatter of bluets 

. . .  this runnel of hope

~Ribbons 12:2, spring/summer 2016

trees in winter

filaments of snow 

       drifting sideways 

                 on the wind--        

                            old pines 

                                     shed their ghosts

                                                                     

                                    ~tinywords 17.1, 2017

the oak stands

stripped to its bare bones

half the year—

I lay my naked words

in homage at its root

~Earth: Our Common Ground (2017)

beech leaves

clinging past midwinter

sing on the breeze

there is only the dance

of sunlight and shadow

~Ribbons 13:2, spring/summer 2017 

safely delivered

Printed in 1725 and thicker than my hand is broad, the leather-bound Bible that once belonged to my grandmother contains several cracked and yellowed pages closely written on both sides in faded brown ink, the entries dating back to 1699.  The ink has bled through the thin paper, which is torn and mended in several places with cloudy tape.  I photograph the pages with my iPhone and enlarge the images, laboriously transcribing as much as I can. 

Here is my ancestor Elizabeth, married on August 20, 1717 ‘old stile.’  In the next twenty years she bore thirteen children—seven of them born dead. Her granddaughter, also called Elizabeth, married a lieutenant in the 55th Regiment of the British Army and sailed with him from New York to Ireland and back again.  Widowed with at least three children, she later remarried.  An oil portrait of her second husband, in powdered hair and flowing cravat, hangs on the wall behind me. One forefinger marks his place between the pages of a half-closed book. 

a brittle history

of baptism and burial—

the refrain

        thanks be to god

 in a spidery hand

~Skylark 4:2, Winter 2016