Marching Along . . .

There once was a girl who could write
Her words were full of insight
She tried a limerick
That fell like a brick
But her stories floated like light. 

Minuteman Park, Concord MAIn March, I still don’t usually like to walk in the morning.

Even though I’m a walker.

I don’t hike or run, trot or dawdle. I walk for miles for the majesty of . . . walking.

No little music plugs; instead I keep my ears open for the sound of the woodpecker and the hawk, the trill of the mocking bird and the taunt of the squirrel. I listen to the scrunch of the leaves, the low roar of the plane above me, and the soft slap of my shoes on wooden bridge and wooded path. Continue reading

Canned Love

canned goods, love storyAs I placed my head on the pillow to sleep, I suddenly thought about Artie. My heart choked up as if something was squeezing it, hard.

The pain pushed the blood, salt, and tears out of my soul.

I rose out of bed, realizing that sleep was impossible, and walked quietly, almost hypnotically, over to the master bath. What I needed was a good long soak in the tub . . . Continue reading