If you’re reading Mary Oliver’s Twelve Moons as a lunar calendar with me this year, it’s time for another poem, for this month’s first quarter moon, For Eleanor.
For me, this is a heartbreaking poem. My mother, Gertie, died of pancreatic cancer 13 years ago this coming December 27th. All this time later, and that bittersweet (mostly bitter) December and Christmas can easily be recalled by the slightest thing, even a poem. Continue reading
A couple of days ago, it looked like we’d best stay inside for the rest of the winter. When rain started soaking our heavy, light snowfalls, it didn’t seem safe to go outside, let alone pleasant. And yet, I so easily forget that our weather is highly changeable. We (like everyone else, everywhere in the United States) are fond of saying, “If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes—it’ll change!”
Yesterday, the wind died with the sunrise, which lit banks of altocumulous clouds to the south, but found its rays remarkably unencumbered around our homestead. I’d measured 38 inches of snow on our veranda bench seat (after the rain had knocked down some of its height) but when I stepped outside, I found it all melted, save a thin layer of ice. Temperatures had risen to the mid-30s in the night. The day felt soft, inviting. I heard my late mother’s voice telling me to go outside and play! Continue reading
