it is the dip
of her chin
the way she leans,
but does not stoop;
how her hand is
cupped, nails short
and
fingers never calloused.
it is the hint of a
drawl that slips
through
on "well" and
"honey" and "dog".
it is the peach of
plump on her
cheek as she
puts her hand to
my face and presses
it to hers;
the arch of that right
brow and unhinged
laughter, her arms cast
like moonlight
to gather us all.
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A place for writers to find refuge when doubt and rejection have trapped them in the underworld. Writing and works in progress by Mary, as well as some photos of travels.
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About Me
- Just Mary
- Empty nest; what is next? Over 20 years as a creative writing instructor; over 40 years as a writer. On my desk right now, an unopened bag of coffee beans, a music cd, a plethora of pens, two newspaper scraps, photos of my son and daughter, two half-full bottles of water and a half empty coffee mug and a notice from Julie about a poetry reading Friday night.
2 comments:
my mother had a way with her children. and with other children who were not her own but felt like they were. she was the catcher in the rye. and no, she did err, often. but if you were in need of an intent ear, a watchful eye, an open embrace, she was stellar.
btw, my shift key is broken
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