elderly
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Another old poem
This poem is an amalgam of a few people I was privileged to know during my formative years and just beyond. The hand in the photo — resting on oilcloth — belongs to a beloved friend (deceased), the last occupant of an old mill camp. The Stone What story in her face isn’t being told? Continue reading
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The Fine Art of Thumb Twiddling (poem)
I wrote the following poem at least a decade ago. I’d forgotten until this evening when I unearthed a CD from a dresser drawer and had a look. I help my mother ease into the passenger seat, guiding her by her elbow with one hand and balancing her canes with the other, I tuck her Continue reading
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