Darling, come to me as the clouds gather. Be unafraid to view the sky. It wants you to look away from the doom and gray. Hold tight and fear not, for the shades of bars on windows, city streets slick after rain, and the slate-snow after tires and dirt blend it color clouds that want you to cry.
Category: Writing
It: a Poem
I am tired of it because I’ve lost enough. “First they came …” Do you know those words?
In the Words of Penelope, a Poem for all Women
There are days I love you, and remember the feeling—though how fleeting it seems now when the words of men and the women bending to them pour down like rain in a torrent in the heart of a hurricane. Recall every moment I have loved you from the time our daughter opened hereyes, and the… Continue reading In the Words of Penelope, a Poem for all Women
The Writer’s Block Breaks
We’ll see the changing of the colors, dear, no matter when it is: the swan emerging from the river before summer’s end when one more calla lily portrays its plumes.
When the Lilies Bloom
I wish I could write of love that everyday is when the lilies bloom, and its yellow streaks reminds us of honeysuckles at dawn in June when the hummingbirds begin to greet the warmth of Earth. We, who have loved, all wish this of love, and for those who love long after us.
A Poem for Grieving Parents: After the Ink Fades
Parents, like me, know all about learning opportunities. We experience them each second, minute, hour, day, night, month and year. Oh, my dear, we know the lessons well. We never ask for them. We never request to join a school of thought, nor wish this club’s type of exclusivity on any other. We experience our lessons in nature when the birds chirp, yet hear no shriek of excitement, or “Mom, how you doing?” We have learning opportunities we never sought, and knowledge we never wished to gain.
In the Middle of Some Road
Mask 1 hides the bereaved mother screaming inside. She asks, “Why am I still alive?” but I tuck her down deep, even put her to sleep, so she will not speak all that is one her mind. "Shhh … little momma, don’t you cry" although your daughter is not alive.
Escape from Hitchcock
There are days when you long for the waves to rush over your feet, and you discover the kind of days made for digging in garden dirt as sweat pours down your face, and you believe you recognize the signs of happiness again after you've known darkness of the darkest kind.
On Any Given Day: Corrie’s Retreat
The year, 2023, provided the most positive growth since Corrie's death because I grew in confidence after witnessing what I'd accomplished in the gardens. We went from one garden to three in 2023, along with island gardens. The result is now I have a vision for gardens everywhere on the property, and John has helped me plan them, along with officially naming the farm, "Corrie's Retreat."
What the Farm Means to Me
There was never a flower, wild or not, our daughter failed to love.
Corrie's Season 