Old snow. It’s like the linens piled up in a corner of a thrift shop, the kind passed down from grandmother to mother and then to a daughter who regarded … Continue reading
The day proceeded to turn over heavily, with the sun appearing to be bolted to a chink of sky between morose gray clouds. Poor Boston, poor humble Providence, all those rivets of history to our genesis as a nation graying in the ancient countryside.
I throw some seeds onto the snow and the dark-eyed juncos are here, very busy.
Follow professional skiers and mothers Izzy Lynch and Tessa Treadway as they carry the load of loss, life changing events, and the love of their children into the mountains where they find the moments of peace, growth and healing that help them carry on.
blue in the open spaces
I don’t have relationships,
the old drunk explained
with surprising wisdom,
I take hostages.
Ghosts wear snow in the early morning hours and walk around like debutants at a ball. The wind lifts the hems of their long dresses and there is nothing beneath but a few dog tracks. How lonely it must be to be dead.
The heavy snow has split the oak out front,
its right branch lodges in a parked car’s roof
and splays across the windshield and the hood.
see the moon lay its Templar light
even the swing-set in its cold metal
The snow and the dark wind, the impassable wastes of one’s backyard, the icy draft that leaks in under the front door tell you you have no place to go. You must sit down and allow the slightly old-fashioned language of self to drift in.