washedstones.blogspot.com
washed stones: Winter comes, with heat
http://washedstones.blogspot.com/2014/11/winter-comes-with-heat.html
Saturday, November 15, 2014. Winter comes, with heat. I’m just home from an icy drive. And the first arctic blast has frozen. The floor through the crawl space. I sit in the big old robe. With socked and blanketed. Feet on the ottoman. My husband is working late. In the corner, the wood stove. Reaches for me with aromatic heat. Am the one craved. On top, the last of the chicken soup,. That final glow of chili and garlic,. Tomatoes deep and bright, flickering. Onions, all velvet on my tongue now. Steven, ...
washedstones.blogspot.com
washed stones: November 2014
http://washedstones.blogspot.com/2014_11_01_archive.html
Saturday, November 15, 2014. Winter comes, with heat. I’m just home from an icy drive. And the first arctic blast has frozen. The floor through the crawl space. I sit in the big old robe. With socked and blanketed. Feet on the ottoman. My husband is working late. In the corner, the wood stove. Reaches for me with aromatic heat. Am the one craved. On top, the last of the chicken soup,. That final glow of chili and garlic,. Tomatoes deep and bright, flickering. Onions, all velvet on my tongue now. Around u...
washedstones.blogspot.com
washed stones: September 2013
http://washedstones.blogspot.com/2013_09_01_archive.html
Monday, September 30, 2013. The first yellow leaves separate. Dry and light like sloffed skin. Lifting off into blue space. One by one, elliptical. Confetti in a continual float. At the end of the parade,. Spinning across the barn’s. Coffinal roof where walnuts thunk. Like falling teeth, spiraling. Around empty sunflower heads. Lolling against shoulderless stalks,. Or circling round and round nothing. Like ashes—nothing that looks like. Something, for the wind—. Until after almost all down. Though its ar...
washedstones.blogspot.com
washed stones: February 2014
http://washedstones.blogspot.com/2014_02_01_archive.html
Wednesday, February 19, 2014. The close of winter. We fight against the close. With our drive to go. On, not to stop. And sleep or beautifully. With blades and spades. We further our path. Though we don’t know where. We are going, or. And in our deepening desire. For meaning, the snow. Around our tired knees. It would be so simple. To let it stop. Us, if we could believe. The stopping would not. The living is. If being. Alone was really enough. Wednesday, February 12, 2014. After waking from a nap. Where...
washedstones.blogspot.com
washed stones: May 2015
http://washedstones.blogspot.com/2015_05_01_archive.html
Friday, May 29, 2015. Class conflict and reading Henry James and Malcolm X. After 5 1/2 months of no posts, this sudden appearance of a long piece might seem odd. I simply want to post it, and I have no other place that seems appropriate. Do not feel obliged to read it, oh dear and old friends! If it interests you, then by all means, please do! Please understand that I do not see African Americans as the only oppressed ones! How can a person read. The Autobiography of Malcolm X. Out of desire and shame, ...
washedstones.blogspot.com
washed stones: November 2013
http://washedstones.blogspot.com/2013_11_01_archive.html
Thursday, November 21, 2013. Coffee, tea, they and we. In a week and a half we trundled between four houses. We visited friends in Ohio one weekend, back home for the work week, then a weekend with our grandson in their apartment while his parents got away. We arrived home Sunday with a storm that took out power (and a mighty spruce), so we moved into our son’s house in town until power was restored two days later. When you are not with close friends,. You are not in the presence. As it lives in people.
washedstones.blogspot.com
washed stones: July 2014
http://washedstones.blogspot.com/2014_07_01_archive.html
Friday, July 18, 2014. With no apparent ferocity in their wildness,. Shapes of white ash and beam. Roll above and past the old house and barn,. Which sag under them in rumpled pleats. Bent peaks and gables finger the buoyant clouds. But seem too weak to hook, release. And catch them: armloads of damp laundry,. Which through summer centuries stay daily fresh. When I was a girl in a small town, one. Summer night I dreamt that the moon came. Close enough to touch. Clouds hover today,. Nomadic days and nights.
washedstones.blogspot.com
washed stones: Arranging stones: poems and quilts
http://washedstones.blogspot.com/2014/10/arranging-stones-poems-and-quilts.html
Monday, October 6, 2014. Arranging stones: poems and quilts. Crosses the sky,. And the seam closes. Means that pale young boys. Play with a dog. In a beautiful garden. To let another thing. That is in our power. October 6, 2014 at 11:41 AM. Lovely, particularly the image in a beautiful garden / of dark-leafed paisley. October 7, 2014 at 4:17 AM. Thank you, Maureen. October 6, 2014 at 11:44 AM. I appreciate it as a seamstress and a poet. xo. October 7, 2014 at 4:20 AM. October 6, 2014 at 1:17 PM. Yes, I t...
washedstones.blogspot.com
washed stones: October 2014
http://washedstones.blogspot.com/2014_10_01_archive.html
Sunday, October 26, 2014. We are at the cider mill, which has become a massive festival of blow-up toys and pay-as-you-go corrals, the sale of cider, doughnuts and apples apparently insufficient. The two babies are happy to be outside on their mommies' bosoms in identical, identifiable Ergo carriers, blissfully unaware of economics. James takes and throws it indignantly back into the woods. "That is not our own! And so he begins to eat the dried, borrowed corn. Monday, October 6, 2014. Crosses the sky,.
