Friday, January 3, 2014

#42

The silver maple was shorter then
and more sun surely reached in
the windows and the old lady
wasn't so old, and maybe
her husband was here too
in this house where I now sit 
and wonder. Words gone up 
like the heated air, through rafters
and out, scattered and diffuse,
sounds of laughter, love, life, loss--
for sure, grown children came
and took stock, discussed, maybe
argued about this or that antique,
the house empty and clean,
bereft, waiting for a new set
of stories that grow sometimes
as slowly as trees but just
as deliberately.

A Letter to My Students

I don’t say it enough, but I care about you. Each of you. That’s why I’m here. It’s too much work to do it for the money, so there must be ...