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

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.


The way the light falls into my bathroom
each morning in summer
is known to me
like my name.
I know it better than how to
grow old
retire or
navigate social security.
Its soft presence
from the east, gently,
lifts me into the day.
It’s only absent in storm
but then still present in a
diffuse way.
Light, more faith than fifty creeds,
daily holds me
in its glow.
Moving is not just a
new baker, grocer, dry cleaner,
a change in the way home,
new paths
to reach old friends,
it’s a shift in how
the world looks when I wake
as I splash
water on my face,
how I see myself
as I prepare
to meet the world.
It’s a change in all I know.
The way the light falls into my bathroom
each morning in summer
is known to me
like my name.



Published in Evening Street Review, Autumn 2012.

Image ID: 19334240
Copyright Christophe.rolland1 |


No laughter resonates
like that of women beyond
need of make-up and reach of girdles.
Ladies for whom wrinkles rank in importance
well below the dog’s recovery from Lyme disease
and driving the neighbor to dialysis.
No humor is quite so funny as old friends’ jibes
about each other’s foibles and failings
or jests about sex more remembered than practiced.
The stories sweeten with each repeat.
No place is safer
than one warmed
by the laughter
of friends.