Remember, yesterday, I opened and read:
“I like the intimacy
with a patch of ground
the closeness and the drawing in,
the swish the grass makes
with the scissored snap of stems,”
From her poem Cutting the grass with Scissors
well, i wrote in the margins of her book, much like my living, existing in the periphery, a few words…
two worn, bent at the wrist
we share -a small token of fervent hope
though nothing stays for long
my dandelion wishes stray
easterly, past our thoughts.
Staying on the island, even for the shortness of time enjoyed, was an awakening to how harried life can become. Oh! How I pine for the evergreen of Monhegan life.
Monhegan Island May 2016
Life on Monhegan
just a taste … brought us, me, back to life.
The cold breath
of wintering hearts. Over.
I miss Monhegan Island. If I could fly, sewn feathers -tightly worn…
Instead, I sit
I did not meet Judith Pontura. Her book, stacked on a store shelf. The lady, behind the register, well, I asked her, had Judith signed any books? She had. A signature tucked away, book behind the counter. I bought it. I like to see the handwriting on the wall.
I opened the pages -again this morning. And an address, a P.O. Box with 04852 zip code. A name attached. Judith. Now Weber. Was this her? Had the cash-register lady given me her address? How, days pass. We forget the impact, never notice an island sprawled all over the desk. Mapped out-meticulously.
You remind me. Smell.
Monhegan May 2016