Shoulders A man crosses the street in rain, stepping gently, looking two times north and south, because his son is asleep on his shoulder. No car must splash him. No car drive too near to his shadow. This man carries the world’s most sensitive cargo but he’s not marked. Nowhere does his jacket say FRAGILE,Continue reading “Shoulders, a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye”
April My peonies sleep curled into their red roots frozen with the ground. I walk with what is left of winter and discover a tiny animal, wet and black, bereft of possibility. It’s too close to spring to die. William says we need a month of sunny days before we dig and plant. This morning,Continue reading “A June Peony in April”
Originally posted on Dunga Brook Diary:
I walk out the door. It’s Monday. It’s April. It’s Central New York. It’s complicated. The wild fields lie flat, the color of wet straw, felled first by frost then snow now sleet and rain and wind. The ground is still stiff with permafrost, daily softening. Nearest the brook…
One life,-a little gleam of time between two Eternities.