Simple things really, ordinary, but this evening they are now. Newly green leaves hang from rain blackened branches. Lilac bushes past their peak continue to cling tenaciously to the final blooms. The shade garden is sparingly strewn with summer’s promise. The splash and splatter of a rain falls more summer than spring. Birds steak, compelled despite the wet to feed their demanding young.
Simple things really a door-framed, vertical slice of now. The drive displays a litter of twirly-bird seeds. Hasta leaves shiver under each discarded drip from the roof. Last year’s pine needles lie arrayed in stranded patterns on the walk. A complacent verdant slip of lawn stretches in the evening grey.
Simple things of a moment stolen from now. It did not follow me home, it is home. Can I keep it?
“And sometimes I think about a one-and-a-half-year old child with its baby teeth still coming in, whose days on this earth were so very, very few.” (National Geographic, July 1988, page 53) The author of the article, haunted by that scene as he unearthed the remains of a 4th century town on the Island of..Read More ›
We spent a half week with all nine of the children and the twelve grandchildren. The occasion was our son’s wedding. Tears threatened when the boys, now men, stood as groomsmen for their brother. The struggle of our grandson to stay awake and the relaxed attitude in one of the boy’s suits served to prevent..Read More ›