Ready, the boy climbs the ladder,makes his way to the edgeand full of faith-- he leaps--expecting flight,finding hot tearsin a red capethat doesn't work.

paint the pony I will ridesoft hues that gather childhoodand thrust forward, to nowhereback again, we turnto plunking calliope tuneloud, round notes, we lift higherhollowed ponies with painted ribbonsbetween our thighs,laughter in her eyes-- from 'Paint the Dancing Pony' (a poem)

Nestled... In the dappled Spring sunlightpeeking through oaks, maples, and Tulip poplaris a country house with pale-yellow siding.Across a corner of the weathered,wooden-slatted front porch, a vine lazilystretches to find a spot in the sun.

Mamaw's spirit lingers there, her high-bubbled laughcarrying on like a song, her quiet dignity still holdingtogether the air that holds up this house.

The memories of some pass by, pale shadowswith laughter-- songs I remember.-- Letter-Back Chairs (a poem)

Butterflies and mothsto the flame --- and we are the flame

I made your favorite." Nannie says, her elegant hand trembles,so subtle it hides behind a smile. She listenscarefully,responds quickly, eases the baked macaroni from the oven.We wash our hands with bars of smooth soap in delicate shapes.We are quiet, careful not to touch the glass of doors.We do not leave fingerprints here.

Golden framed and heavy, the painting.Ocean waves curled in suspended time,white-lipped and silent beneath brush-stroked bluesof sky. Gulls are captured there, mid-flight, fishing moments stolen in time, they soar without moving.

Arising there, a china cabinet, its gifts enclosed in a hug.Atop a pedestal table, hand-sanded and love-stained,Mom's Christmas cactus trails and cascades in forest greensawaiting pink-winged petals alighting in season, a crescendo of bloom framed an autumn-light meandering through remembrance like a dream.