As I approach the river in the fog
a heron takes flight, dark winged angel.
“Good morning, Mom.” I say.
Since her death, I greet
each heron and feel blessed
by the sighting. Mom’s love
of nature saved my life.
When sun sparkles
on saltwater and I feel
the wash of waves,
Jamie, my summer brother, is near.
As teens, we surfed September breakers
then collapsed onto the sand
laughing always
laughing.
All my old boyfriends are
dead (except for the one I live with.)
Maurie, lifted his 6’4”
frame into the boat like a wet otter,
his homely face offset by
a quick wit. His farm town
roots were exotic to this suburban girl.
He believed withdrawal would work.
Good thing we broke up.
John, a handsome bad boy,
drove his dad’s T-bird.
He was my first male obsession.
He rose at Jamie’s funeral
to hug me, share our grief
for old times, old backseats
old friends.
Ann died last year. Forty years
of friendship, knitting and laughter.
Each project and strange new style
prompts me to call her.
In New Mexico, when Linda
decided to drive - Ann and I
jumped in the back seat.
I am still laughing.
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Your lovely writing always takes me back to my own special times, Cynthia. Thank you.
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Loved it as usual. You’re the best poet I know.
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Whenever I see a heron, I will think of Aunt Louise. ❤️❤️❤️
On Mon, Sep 20, 2021 at 12:19 PM A WELL-TRAVELED HEART wrote:
> Cynthia M. Sheward posted: ” As I approach the river in the fog a heron > takes flight, dark winged angel. “Good morning, Mom.” I say. Since her > death, I greet each heron and feel blessed by the sighting. Mom’s love of > nature saved my life. When sun sparkles on saltwater” >
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