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Moment
Before the adults we call our children arrive with their children in
tow
for Thanksgiving,
we take our morning walk down the lane of oaks
and hemlocks, mist
a smell of rain by nightfall—underfoot,
the
crunch of leathery leaves released by yesterday's big wind.
You're ahead
of me, striding into the arch of oaks that opens onto the fields
and stone
walls of the road—
as a V of geese honk a path overhead, and you
stop—
in an instant, without thought, raising your arms toward sky, your
hands
flapping from the wrists,
and I can read in the echo your body
makes of these wild geese going
where they must,
such joy, such
wordless unity and delight, you are once again the child
who knows by
instinct, by birthright,
just to be is a blessing. In a fictional
present, I write the moment down.
You embodied it.
"Moment" by Margaret Gibson, from Broken Cup. ©
Louisiana State University Press, 2014
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The Window
A storm blew in last night and knocked out
the electricity. When I looked through the window, the trees were translucent. Bent and covered with rime. A vast calm lay over the countryside. I knew better. But at that moment I felt I'd never in my life made any false promises, nor committed so much as one indecent act. My thoughts were virtuous. Later on that morning, of course, electricity was restored. The sun moved from behind the clouds, melting the hoarfrost. And things stood as they had before.  
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by Ruth Elies (Dix; Hale)
Sun Prairie WI
circa 1919
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Next week, feedback on Steve Dix's book about escape to Canada and the Yukon during the Vietnam era (FINDING HONOR) | ||
