It’s cold and damp this February morning in the Appalachia mountains – bluejays, cardinals and squirrels are confused by the signs of a very early Spring – scattered with drops of freezing temperatures.
I, too, feel somewhat confused by the seasons lack of consistency . Winter is a necessary part of nesting, creative percolating – a time that’s been interrupted by an climate change.
Will the Spring come too soon and all be destroyed with the many frosts that should be forthcoming?
The word is a question and question is the word.
it’ s October, and I’m wearing sandals and short sleeves…
Where’s the wind…
the door’s wide open and there’s no breeze
Where’s the wind….
the trees are asking and so are the leaves…
Where’s the wind…
she asks to lull me to sleep on a warm October’s eve
… crickets and the rumbling of the dishwasher must do
Anita Adams 10/9/18
It’s a morning ritual for me, to listen to Garrison Keillor and The Writer’s Almanac. There are facts regarding the day, the earth, and ends in a poem. Select the listen online option. This day was full of amazing facts.
|Thursday, May 11, 2017
|To the Woman at the Retirement Center
by Phebe Hanson
You tell me when you were eight, newly arrived
from Czechoslovakia, your teacher made you memorize
a poem that began “I remember, I remember
the house where I was born.” Stranger
to our language you proudly learned all the verses,
practiced them over and over in front of your mirror,
but at the program when you stood to recite
in front of all the parents and other students,
you got as far as “I remember, I remember,”
and forgot all the rest and had to sit down shamefaced.
Now you live in this ten-story retirement center
where you cried most of the first month, so lonesome
for your son, transferred to another city, who couldn’t
take you with him because his new house wasn’t
big enough. Sometimes, you tell me, you slip away
from the recreation director who wants to teach you
how to turn plastic bleach bottles into bird feeders,
sneak up to your room, turn on the Bohemian radio station,
dance barefoot all by yourself, as you used to
years ago in the house where you were born.
“To the Woman at the Retirement Center” by Phebe Hanson from Why Still Dance. © Nodin Press, 2003. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)