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  • Out of the Mouths of Babes

    Out of the Mouths of Babes is an ongoing discussion of mothering and creativity. The blog series with over 50 contributors continues here on Laundry Line Divine. Our live event from the Berkshire Festival of Women Writers is featured on our home page. Start here. The Out Posts

  • Powder Keg Sessions

    Ignite your voice in the next Powder Keg Sessions: Writing Workshops for Mothers and Others. I lead two different Sessions in the Berkshires. Sessions resume in September. Subscribe to this site to learn more. Follow the fuse

  • Rampant Sisterhood: Authentic Voices Engaged Online

    Be the change you want to see in the world. Want to learn how to share your work online in an appropriate way that supports your vision and expresses your care for the world? Join me at Women's Voices, Women's Vision in June for beginner and advanced sessions on Rampant Sisterhood. Would you like to host a workshop in your area? Platform building support

  • Anthology of Babes is here.

    Do you feel alone in your mothering, that the last vestiges of your own voice chased out the door with the most recent crowd of small people who slammed out of here? An Anthology of Babes is the voice in the room who urges you to come play, pick up your knitting needles, a pen, a paintbrush, to answer your creative yearnings. Find the book on Amazon or in indie bookstores in the Berkshires. Praise for the Anthology

What I Am Not Waiting For

Spruce Lake Water Lily

I am not waiting for the laundry to be done or the floor of the bathroom to dry out from the deluge of a passing 16 year old, nor am I waiting for inspiration to strike or this malaise to pass. I am not waiting for the garage to be organized or the pollen to get washed out of the air. I am not waiting for a clear idea of what to write, for acceptance or comment by my writing peers or for the squirrels that are chasing each other’s very flouncy late summer tails up and around the oak to settle down. Neither sink nor washer, refrigerator shelf nor unfinished projects on the dining room table can dissuade me from my primary spiritual aim today, which is to write.

I was just about to skip it.
I was done with my daily writing in my journal.
The wash waits folding.
The project I am sitting on is pressed and ready for the next steps.
I got up and as I walked in to the house there was this little laptop.

Sitting on the counter, getting juiced up, the red-sleeved metal box said nothing. But I have a Pavlovian enough response built in to my body that I knew to pick it up. Pick it up. Open it. Pause in Facebook long enough to see Holly’s invitation for daily writing prompts, which I hoard and use, usually, but do I really need another when this phrase does it for me?

“Many writers wait to begin writing until the laundry’s done, children are in bed, or their day job is less stressful. Don’t be one whose life passes while you harbor a secret wish to see what happens when you really apply yourself to your art.”

I have been really applying myself to my life, which includes my artwork, for seven years. Before that, I lived my life as a full time mom, managing community projects, and teaching gardening at my kid’s school and maintaining this home front while my husband worked in his office in the attic. I had spent years studying and then teaching yoga. I had clocked hours of service work. I attended a regular Al-Anon meeting and had to tame my urge to do more in every one of the situations I was engaged in. I went from helping with the parent education program at my kids’ school to running it. I went from being on the Strategic Planning Committee at that same school to co-leading the Parent’s Association and clearing a few years of backed up resentment that had collected around that organization. I was hungry and appetitious.

But these community efforts, while immediately rewarding for the direct human impact, did not satisfy me deeply. They were temporal offerings in a grand cycle of re-inventing the wheel that spins within many organizations. I was useful and purposeful, but others had done it before me. Others would see the need and follow after me.

I longed to have a more singular purpose that could be executed within the boundaries of motherhood, but that I hoped would bring more of me forward, more of what I know to be true.

I increased the time I spent writing. My daily journal keeping was a steady feature in my life. I added more writing by taking a class that met one Saturday a month. Like Holly suggests, I made writing a priority before phone calls and meetings. I began to organize my days so that I had a few chunks of writing time a week. Eventually, my husband agreed to cover the home front one day a week so that the fluctuating needs of parenting, which are so immediate and necessary and unquestioningly important would be covered by him that day. On quiet days, that meant he worked in the car while waiting for the guitar lesson to be done. On busier days, that meant he was the one making lunch for the sick child or waiting in the doctors office or attending a school meeting. Something had to give so that I could clear my day and focus. And what gave was my husband.

Truly, there were Thursdays he could not cover. There were snow days when I got an unexpected gift of a few hours alone while they went off to ski. There were Saturdays when I stayed home and wrote instead of doing the myriad things families do on weekends together. I began to make space for my writing. My family survived.

This habit, as Holly includes in her invitation for her daily prompts in September, does what Twyla Tharp says, “Skill gets imprinted through action.” By making my writing a habit, my skills began to change. I started attending workshops and classes and went to conferences. I am still in the soup of this skill building today.

I don’t wait anymore. I don’t wait for all the right conditions to be met for me to work. I just work. I teach. I lead workshops. I give talks on the creative lives of women, mothers in particular. I lead this blog series. I produce events. I study. I mentor. I have colleagues and sisters. I have found, built and participated in a growing community of creative women.

 

Here is the Slow Time Salon on Superior workshop women. We took a lovely walk to the Big Bay Point Lighthouse after lunch.
Here is the Slow Time Salon on Superior workshop women. We took a lovely walk to the Big Bay Point Lighthouse after lunch.

 

Ultimately, I am writing my first book, which offers a magnetic invitation into the life of a woman who rescued her voice while mothering. My current blurb is: “Discover the wild treasures of daily life in Laundry Line Divine: A Wild Soul Book for Mothers.”

What waits for you?
What do you choose to do daily?
In those pockets of time in between, do you feed your appetite or squelch it?
What would change in your life if you made time for your creative spirit to play?

I believe that mothers are the most creative folks around, the unsung heroines of creative thinking. Just listen to one tired mother sing a homespun lullaby to her babe, while another part of her brain dreams up a solution to the story she is mulling over. We play at the portal of creative life all day long while raising our children. But in my experience we fail to value this play as important action. The very base activities that mothers engage in are springboards. But, for generations, mother’s voices have not been considered of interest to our greater culture. This is changing, but it is not changed entirely. For every woman I speak to who has begun to engage her own voice to express from inside motherhood- however that takes form, there are five women who cannot even contemplate how they’d spend an hour off from their regular routine of child-raising, career building, and home tending. There is shyness in many women, branded with this question, “What could I have to say? I am just a housewife. I am just a social worker juggling two part time jobs and picking my kids up at the day care center. What does the world want to know of my existence?”

Waiting for confirmation that the world is interested is akin to waiting for the house to be clean enough for you to sit down and write. You might as well just plop in front of the TV and let the people who come for your dead carcass turn it off as they carry you off to the mortuary.

Louise Erdrich’s poem Advice to Myself is a call to action that I answer every single day. I write permission slips for myself on the days when I need an extra boost.

… Leave the dishes.
Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator
and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.
Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster.
Throw the cracked bowl out and don’t patch the cup.
Don’t patch anything. Don’t mend. Buy safety pins.
Don’t even sew on a button. …

 

I am not saying that we are all going to be the next Beyoncé or Elizabeth Gilbert by prioritizing time for creative play. I am not suggesting that the very next thing that flies off your knitting needles will be placed in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

I am saying that by engaging your creative voice in whatever way calls you, you will begin to lead a happier, more fulfilling life. You will feel more engaged with what inspires you because you will be able to hear what your inner appetite craves. Ideas will bubble up because you have made room for them. Stories will spin from your pen because you have told yourself that this action is necessary to your joy. Your life will gain an authenticity of which you did not know you were capable. And, you will be a better person, parent, sister, daughter, son, husband, brother, aunt, uncle, unicorn, because you have decided that what you have to say is worth saying.

You are worth the time it takes.
Here, a permission slip just for you.
Download this image, print it out, frame it and hang it by the kitchen sink or glue it in your journal. Prioritize time for yourself. Subscribe to Holly’s September prompts if that calls to you.

Permission Slips 1

 

 

 

There.
Now I shall step off this soapbox and get to that laundry.
All my best,

Suzi

PS I will tell you that this malaise has passed since writing these 1470 words, give or take. And the guilt about the hours spent lurks like a hungry woodchuck, pressing forward even when I have successfully kept it off the lusty cabbages for a few hours. It exists. And in this world, I write.

PPS I would be remiss if I did not say all this and not invite you to my Wednesday evening Powder Keg Ramsdell Sessions from 6:30 to 7:45 PM. We meet at the Ramsdell Public Library in Housatonic, MA. The Sessions are free. The library has a lovely children’s room so that if you need to bring your kids, they can be engaged for that period of time. My Powder Keg Sunday Sessions begin on September 28 here in Great Barrington. I charge $30. for a three hour monthly Session. Email below if you are interested. And if you are far-away from the Berkshires of Western Massachusetts, then please subscribe to this site. It is my hope that you find nourishment for your creative life here.

Slow Time Salon heads home: So Long and Much love!

  
Permission Slips Slow

Today I begin the leaving part.

I have been in the north for 15 days, traversing New York State in to Canada, then up through the Lower Peninsula of Michigan over the Mackinaw Bridge in to the Upper Peninsula where I stayed put in my homeland for a set of days.

Big Bay Glistens

 

Then, after giving three talks called Giving Motherhood a Voice, and one day long art and writing workshop called, Slow Time Salon on Superior, I headed back to my mother’s house, which is about 100 paces from her gravestone. Spent two nights there.

And for the last three nights I have been in Milwaukee, which reminds me so much of Munich, the cream colored brick, the tidy streets and tree-lined boulevards, cafe tables set out in the August sun, neighbors out tending gardens and the pulse of the city evident through a variety of colorful neighborhoods.

photo(18)
Tiny free libraries are posted on city streets in Milwaukee

I was able to consign three copies of the book I published last year, An Anthology of Babes: 36 Women Give Motherhood a Voice to a literary arts book center called Woodland Pattern. You can imagine how happy that made me. I have visited other bookshops. Attended an evening outdoor concert with my niece, her mama and my dear friend. And yesterday, I visited the Special Collections department in the library at University of Wisconsin at Milwaukee to meet Max Yela.

Max introduced his curated collection and we discussed building books as works of art. He generously laid out 15 different artist books for us to pore over. I did not take photographs, but if you would like to see some of what we saw, go here.

Team Nerd Print
Geri and I visited Team Nerd Letterpress studio and were smitten by Adam Beadel’s work.

I will write of this visit more, but the engines of return are calling me. I pine away for my daughter and husband, and am worried that I have missed the short but sweet cantaloupe season in the Berkshires. My son is happy at college, but I could scoot over to picnic with him when I get home. Today, I sprint to Illinois to visit one of my mother’s many sisters, my Aunt Rachel. Then, I go on to my other sister Becky’s for the night. Tomorrow, I will be cruising across Canada and weaving this circle tour of Great Lakes and great friends, big hearts and generous souls all the way home. Completing what has been a densely beautiful visit to the land which sprouted me, where my roots penetrate deeply, where stories flow, the beer is delicious and the cheese worth writing about.

Little Presque Isle

But for now, know that I have been loved all along the way, rekindled old friendships and made new ones. I have shared the stories of the Anthology and warmed to hear the stories told by new friends. My tour mates have made me laugh and cry, sewn their joy in to my heart with thick sturdy stitches.

 

After our talk at the Escanaba Public Library.
After our talk at the Escanaba Public Library.

And so, new, I will return home to love my family up close, pick up the threads of what I left off 16 days ago and see what August has left to give me. Melons. Plums and a dip in the river, I hope.

Big Bay LIghthouse Stone Heart

 

Thank you for traveling with me.
Thank you for your support of women’s voices.
Thank you for using your own voice today.

May it find you laughing.
All my love,

Suzi

 

Dragonfly Team Nerd garden

Slow Time on Superior: Yours, Mine and Ours

Big Bay Heart

“You become the company you keep, keep good company.”

A Sanskrit saying

Kingfisher
Vulture
Minnows
Ravens
Broad-winged Hawk
Turkeys
Toads
Canada Geese
Four little kids in a low riding canoe towing the bigger sister
Red squirrels
White-tailed deer
Painted turtles
Four Bald Eagles
American Goldfinches
Many songbirds

Millions of Superior stones.
Chicory, Indian Paintbrush, Mullein, Tansy, Thistle, Queen Anne’s Lace, Black-eyed Susans, many kinds of grasses, white and yellow water lilies, Aspens, Alders, Birches, Pines, sunflowers, holly hocks, lilies and carnations, and a host of raspberries, blueberries and thimbleberries.

Cairn Big Bay

We have been keeping company on Big Bay this week.

The landing pad for the Giving Motherhood a Voice book tour, which had stops in Ishpeming, Escanaba and Marquette, Michigan last weekend, is a small cottage on a rocky shore. We have we all slowed down here with Kathy, Monica and Geri joining us. Here is Monica’s post about our time.

The dirt road is red, iron red. Our car is dusted with a pinky film of dirt.

Together, in the wilds of lake living, near a flock of rowdy chickens down the road with a persistent rooster, a small gaggle of intrepid kids who swim no matter what the weather, which until I opened this computer to write, has been gray, gray and other shades of gray, we have all found our slow time on Superior.

We have stacked rocks and aimed to leave no trace, but to be fully and completely impressed by the wild rugged beauty of northern Michigan. So far so good. I may have to ditch this writing to go swim while the sun is out. (I am a writer in the practice of writing. I am a writer in the practice of writing. It is a tiny bit too freezing- Gehairenfrost as we say in German-head freezing- to swim, so now, to satisfy my carpe-diem-northern-evening-in-the-woods-yearning to be outside as much as I can and still be a writer in the practice of writing, I am on the porch, with my feet on the railing, sitting so that the sunlight is blocked by a pine tree right in front of me. Mission accomplished. Outside AND writing.)
Tuesday, nine women joined me for the virgin voyage of my Slow Time Salon on Superior. I hatched this idea last year at Dorothy Randall Gray’s Women Writers Artists Matrix gathering in Saratoga Springs, NY. At a Salon roundtable discussion, the words fell out of my mouth before I could stop them, “I want to gather women on the shores of Superior, my heart’s home, to make art, write and share. I want to introduce women to the many access points I have discovered as Portals to Slow.”

 

Slow Time Salon

I had this idea and right about nine months after speaking those words, I sat with women in a sacred circle writing Permission Slips for ourselves. We spent the morning learning a mudra flow of honoring, using aromatheraputic oils to support our grounding and joy, and dove in to mixed media collage techniques to create a tri-fold book form. After a locally sourced lunch made here at the cottage, which included fresh sweet corn grown on Hungry Hollow Road and picked by Geri on Monday, we walked to the Big Bay Lighthouse, just down the road. I asked the women to walk quietly, repeating Thich Naht Hanh’s poem for walking meditation.

I am home.
I have arrived
in the here
and the now.
I am happy.
I am joyous.
In the infinite
I dwell.

We arrived at the Lighthouse, a rugged, majestic structure that has held this shoreline for over 100 years with its three seconds on, seventeen seconds off light beam that reaches 19 miles off-shore to passing ships. The landscape beckoned us, the raspberries delighted us. We walked back singing.

Now I walk in beauty.
Beauty walks before me.
Beauty walks behind me.
Above and below me.

We aimed to bless all we did with a certain kind of awareness that quiet and slow brings. We worked all afternoon on our collages. Some women made cairns on the shore. Others painted compass rocks. We wrote and put our own words in to our small books.
At the closing circle, we shared some of what had touched us over the hours we spent. Women were surprised at how much the quiet nourished them. As Kathy Drue wrote in her post on Lake Superior Spirit, we tended our souls as we have mended our children’s clothing, patching holes with color and tidy stitches. Everyone left full, in a good way.

Holly Hock Big Bay

I can hardly begin to explain to you the significance of me being in the UP just now.
Our son is off at college. Our daughter safely ensconced with work and preparations for her junior year in high school. J and I have taken this time away, for me to pursue my work, to share An Anthology of Babes: 36 Women Give Motherhood a Voice with new audiences and extend my reach in the discussion of the creative lives of women.

Today would be my mother’s 83rd birthday. She passed almost four years ago now, in my hometown, Escanaba, Michigan. When she died, I realized I would have to be purposeful about maintaining a connection to this land I call home. I would have to choose to spend time here, cultivate my relationships, long cherished loves of place and people. So I have. This work and the residencies I hope to develop here, collaborating with other UP artists I hope, in small towns across the central UP, I hope to lead Powder Keg Sessions writing workshops, lead my Mapping Motherhood workshops and develop a Giving Motherhood a Voice event showcasing the stories of Upper Peninsula mothers, women who make things, whether they think of themselves as artists or not. I hope to contribute to the vitality of these communities by enlivening people to engage with their own stories. There will be many layers of this work, and many years for it to develop. But it feels necessary and beginning, almost without my knowing, like the certain confidence I find in my feet when I clamber up a rocky cap along the lake. My feet know where to go before I even see the next stepping spot.

Big Bay Rainbow

This work seems to land in the laps of the right people. I pray it finds a home, and even a project manager who lives in the UP so I am not birthing this project alone. In my current home of the Berkshires of Western Massachusetts, I produce events with the Berkshire Festival of Women Writers. Though I create my own events, I collaborate when it feels right and I create in community.

And this Slow Time Salon week, this Giving Motherhood a Voice book tour, has begun to gather a community around it. Good company.

When you read me here on Laundry Line Divine, even without a comment or email to me, you still add to the growing awareness of this community. Women’s words about their inner territories are laced with a raw tenderness and blossoming warmth that brings me to tears and laughter almost immediately. Our audiences on the book tour spoke of being surprised at how much they enjoyed the readings and the ideas we introduced.

This is how good things begin.
They get carried along in the hearts of our company.
And this is how community is made.

Thank you for reading me here.
Thank you for sharing Laundry Line Divine with your colleagues, friends, sisters, mothers, mentors, writing groups, art buddies and husbands. I appreciate every way you carry this way of being in to your daily life.

Suzi by Monica
This photo of me by Monica Devine captures just how happy this work makes me. This is from our Slow Time Salon on Superior stroll to the Big Bay Point Lighthouse.

There. Now I can go swimming.
xo S

What Do Mothers Make? Connections

Jenny Laird at Out of the Mouths of Babes
Jenny Laird at Out of the Mouths of Babes

The Lotus Connection

Saturday evening at Out of the Mouths of Babes: An Evening of Mothers Reading to Others, Jenny Laird, my neighborhood Buddhist mamaholyladyplaywrightfriend, regaled us with the story of a car ride with her stepson. That 17 year old boy, clad in bullet-studded belt and earrings was not huggable on that particular day. Her story recalled Jenny feeling “launched from the lotus”. If the lotus is the lap of serenity, then that lap is far from many a mother of teenagers.

As I write this I recall the sensation of my daughter, a densely beautiful baby. I can smell her orange and lavender scented diaper crème, her chubby feet kneading my thighs, wedging her heels in to the flesh of my legs which are curled round her as we fall asleep together at naptime.

Serenity dwelt there. I was the lotus.

I recall the instant shot of bliss that comes when she winds her fingers around mine.
From the time she was a tiny pack of joy to now when her lanky self slinks over once on a Blue Moon to linger fingers, I am shot with joy as a tapestry with golden floss, my interior illuminates. This happens not often enough to quell my ache to be close to her.

Photo by Berkshire Magazine's Maria Bakkalapulo
Photo by Berkshire Magazine’s Maria Bakkalapulo

This week, I got to hear (and hug) Gloria Steinem. Students from MCLA in North Adams and people from around the Northeast packed the auditorium. The photo from Berkshire Magazine captures Gloria’s joy. I got to hear my She-ro say,

“God may be in the details, but the Goddess is in connection.”

Has she been reading my journals? When my eldest was a baby I had a revelation while looking at a palm tree, where I learned that God was indeed, in the details. That story resides in Laundry Line Divine: A Wild Soul Book for Mothers. But to hear Gloria add “but the Goddess is in connection” illustrates very personally what happens when women connect their inner life to outer expression. It speaks to the holy necessity of telling our stories, of making art from our ordinary lives.

I hunger for connection with my girl, for the Goddess to dwell between us.

I lay listening to the house from my warm bed on this cold morning. The floor is so cold I hear my girl clunking around the kitchen in boots. Sometimes she does not adjust the heat when she gets up early and I find her writing at the kitchen table dressed in everything she can reach including a hat and a hood. Today, I listened to her pursue her thoughts as she prepared for an on-call about Catch-22 in her lit class. She dogged her dad with clarifying points, hammering out her naive but insightful thoughts until she had something of a case to be made about the way violence is portrayed in the opening chapters of the book.

I just happened to have been in a room with Gloria Steinem the previous night and heard her talk about the normalizing affect domestic violence has on the children who grow up in homes infested with this plague in our culture. People exposed to domestic violence as children, are more likely to carry violence out in to the world. The early and consistent exposure lessens their inner boundaries and protective devices. Violence becomes a normal part of human discourse. Domestic violence habituates a hierarchic society, where one can dominate another. It puts the ladder of ascendance firmly in place urging others to climb on the shoulders of others to rise.

There is nothing of a circle of community in a hierarchy.

So I hustle down, wrapped in a sweater to lean on the kitchen counter, squeezing a lemon, grating ginger, mixing in a swig of apple cider vinegar and a stir of raw honey in to my morning cup. Perhaps I can offer something to her query? Maybe I can make a connection here, from Gloria to my girl? I wondered to what is my daughter being normalized? What conditions exist in our household that she will carry in to the world? As a teen-ager, her better qualities are sometimes hard to identify, so hidden is she behind silence and distraction. The temporary squalls that drive ocean waters between us make me cling to the rocks of beauty in our collective past. Back in the day when she’d reach for my hand crossing the street, holding my hand for miles as we walked cities or country roads. I once felt as woven to her as I do to my own skin. Today, when she burns the dinner I carefully leave for her, trying to meet her dietary and taste needs while giving her space for an evening alone doing homework, I find it hard to locate our common heart.

The fact that my friends and the books I read tell me that this behavior is grossly normal, to be expected, that she is finding her own ground and claiming her independence does not lessen the sting of her disdain. The contrasting moments when she leans in to kiss my cheek, wants to borrow my sweater, wants me to rub her back glare against the ones when I find my boots scrunched down at the ankle because she failed to untie them as she wedged them off her own feet, they singe my eyelashes when I notice the note I left her cast aside with hairy hair bands and bobby pins- all set to foul the clothes washer and my heart.

If I apply Gloria’s rubric of casting aside categories and dwelling in the facts, maybe this is easier. Maybe I shall not expect warmth from someone with cold feet. Maybe I shall not expect interest from someone entirely preoccupied with her own life. Maybe I can wait this stormy sea out.

Motherhood is not for the faint of heart. You have to have sturdy legs for the tossing seas. That is why I do yoga.

#whatdomothersmake My morning hot lemon and ginger. What's your morning drink? XoS

With this post, we welcome Pippa Best to the Out blog series once again. Writing from Cornwall, England, Pippa brings her filmmaker’s eye to her writing, seeing with her words the importance of her creative life and all she makes as a result of that. Pippa and her mother Penny met me in New York City in December at the Museum of Motherhood to make FeMail art and celebrate the Anthology. Here is a video of that event, with Anthology author artist Lori Landau at the helm making a poem from found words from An Anthology of Babes: 36 Women Give Motherhood a Voice.

All this making continues. As Pippa says, we are made by motherhood.
If you’d like to play with me on Instagram and Facebook, tag posts and images of what you make daily with #WhatDoMothersMake.

Let this celebration continue!

xo S

Poem of the Day 2.18.13 G.C. Waldrep

What Is A Testimony

Brocade of the frozen lake. Diaspora of shore ice, just waiting, wait: the boys with their skates will come, will come with their skates, will come skating. Putting on & taking off. As if there were no difference. Waiting, and wait, the weight of it

As in simple, as in mercy. The quality of which may or may not, as the ice on the lake may be: strained: by temperature, by pressure of the water, by the pressure of that which walks. By the drills of the ice fishermen. By the cutter in the channel. Each with its agenda, each winter’s addenda

Without which, say, spring would not ➔ come. (If a tree falls. If the first fragment of ice detaches, slips into and then finally beneath the current, and no one is there. To see. If

I were to step out onto the ice. And keep walking. Or skating. (Though I have no skates. It’s OK for me to tell you that, now. Though I have never. Told another. So: let us say

Walking. In shoes that slip on the ice. In shoes that just keep slipping. Not made ➔ for this. They know I am going somewhere, these shoes, it is part of their duty to apprehend the artifice of motion, though not the nature or identity of destination. No holt, no heaven. And not happy about that. Shoes are seldom narrative creatures and yet they exist, ideally, in

Pairs and laced: their(s) (a) bondage. As with ice, cinch of ice on the lake, above the current, its darker darkness, straitening of small life. Who would keep going, what fool so late in winter. In love with the ice, with the idea of

(If a tree falls. Nor was I. As you were not. No one to bring back report. And the ice held for another month, in that time and in that place. And no one was lost to the water. And yes. I was lonely. We gave thanks.)))

by G. C. Waldrep

this poem came to me via Gwarlingo’s Sunday poem post.
For more information about G. C. Waldep or to sign up for Gwarlingo posts, go here.

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