Ominous?

/ Fran Haley / 12 Comments

One Sunday morning
atop the fellowship hall
sat two black buzzards

holding up their wings
like unholy cherubim
like some ancient sign

of impending doom
(Woe to all who enter here!)
except that I know

a couple of things:
see, buzzards hold out their wings
for the sun’s cleansing

not as harbingers
of death (unless one counts the
zapped bacteria)

Sunday, December 8, 2024: The sight when I pulled into the church parking lot. The buzzards (black vultures) remained motionless atop the fellowship hall, disinfecting their wings in the bright sunlight, until the parking lot got too people-y for them and they flew off. Gotta admit this looks ominous, like something out of Poe or painted on the wall of an ancient tomb. Black buzzards are, however, “highly social birds with fierce family loyalty,” says the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. No wonder the church fellowship hall was so appealing to them for their own sun-day.

*******

with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the March Slice of Life Story Challenge

Whole

/ Fran Haley / 20 Comments

On the first Thursday of each month, a group of us gather online to write to a theme. We call this Spiritual Journey Thursday.

I’ve been out of the loop awhile. Today I take up the invitation again. Denise Krebs is hosting, and she has offered us the topic of wholeness:

What does it mean to be whole, on our spiritual journey?

I feel like my reponse could take a whole book.

Maybe that’s because I understand brokenness.

Last Sunday I wrote a letter to my mother after learning of her death (the post Strewn with loss). We were estranged for almost twenty-three years. It’s a story of mental illness, compulsions, a family paying a price, and no reconcilation. The truth is that after such a shattering we can’t wish wholeness into being; we can only find something of beauty in the pieces. We must learn to treasure that. To be grateful for it. The letter to my mother is to thank her for the beautiful shards amidst the brokenness. There are many. She loved me, once. I loved her. I forgave her. She never knew. She is gone. I could not fix her or the relationship. I had to learn to be whole without her.

The truth is that we are all broken in some way, and sometimes, wholeness doesn’t look or feel like being whole. It’s not perfection. It’s not even peace. It’s more like a path.

If we choose to take it.

To me wholeness being productive, fulfilled, and able to love. Three things I rely on to get me there: Faith, nature, writing.

I’ll take them one at a time:

Faith. I believe God is sovereign. God is at work even when we cannot see it or feel it, and when we can’t seem to make any sense at all of what we are living through. He often does his best work through the least likely people and in impossible situations (for nothing is impossible with God, Luke 1:37). In my current rereading of the Bible, what stands out to me, over and over again, is God’s provision to those who love and obey him. If I am to be honest about my own spiritual journey…I fail at this miserably. But that is the point. I am broken like everything else in this world. The desire for relief from pain or a racing pulse or an anguished heart or a reeling mind is the very desire that pulls me toward God. I do not have to understand ungodly things. I have only to seek God’s help in rising above them all. He will make a way. He will provide. This requires that I know more about him and so I study. Again…wholeness is a path.

Nature. I won’t go into my many bird stories here. I will just say that having a sense of awe, as in understanding that you are part of something greater than yourself, brings purpose and wholeness. It also brings wisdom; King Solomon “spoke of beasts and of birds, and of reptiles and of fish” (1 Kings 4:33). Says my study Bible: “Careful observation of the natural world and how it works it one of the ‘normal’ ways in which people gain wisdom… Solomon was concerned with the natural world.” Nature opens your mind and your heart. It imparts awe in abundance. Trees can communicate with each other. They try to help each other. When grass is cut, it immediately begins to heal itself; that’s the fragrance you smell. That very same chemical is also warning other grass that danger is near. The networkings of mushrooms is mind-blowing. It’s called “The Wood Wide Web.” Not long ago, a first grader told me earthworms are so important that none of us would be here without them (!). Nature offers healing. If you haven’t read Something in the Woods Loves You by Jarod K. Anderson…give it a try. He is frank about his battles with depression and how nature helped pull him out of the abyss and into a better place.

He writes:

Kindness won’t make you rich, but it will make you whole. I know there is hurt in your life…These pains stick to us like burrs. They tell us to lash out, to stop feeling, to turn away and turn inward… But these impulses do not control us. They don’t write our stories, and each time you hear them and answer, “No, not today,” you have given a gift to the world…The world will give back to you in kind, but receiving those gifts can take a little practice… Nature is out there and she is in you. Meet her halfway.

I do this, every day. I meet nature. I look for birds. And more. Here’s the thing: Start looking, and they will come.

So might the feathers of wholeness that grow into wings.

Writing. I haven’t done as much writing this past year as in previous ones. I could say life gets in the way. That I don’t have a lot left to give at the end of the workday. That I am busy with my family, from my husband’s health issues to savoring any time I can get with my granddaughters…these things are true, but they’re not all. The “whole” truth is that I am tired. So, when the March Slice of Life Challenge rolled around again, I decided I would not take it on. Despite having loved it in the past, the idea of writing for thirty-one straight days and responding to others tired me even more. And then I woke up in the wee hours of March 1st and thought, why not write, you will feel deprived if you don’t. And so I got up and wrote. The following day, I wrote that letter to my mother…something I realized I really needed to do even though she will never know about it. That doesn’t matter; she’s free of her suffering in this world. And once again I realized the power of writing. Since I took on the daily challenge, I haven’t been as tired, strangely. I’ve felt stronger. More able. More clear-minded.

More whole.

Most of that is due to you, my friends. Coming back to my writing communities is like coming home to a place of profound belonging.

What is wholeness? Being productive, fulfilled, and able to love. How to attain it? Through faith, nature, writing…

Thank you, my fellow travelers, for being such a vital part of my journey.

And my wholeness.

*******

with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the March Slice of Life Story Challenge
and to the SJT writers
and to my friend Denise, for her invitation to “wholeness”


Coming to light

/ Fran Haley / 8 Comments

She is three
sitting by me
on the couch
open book
in her hands
head bent
so intent
in her study
of detail
in the picture

She is three
and I see
a reader
coming to light

and
very possibly
an illustrious
illustrator
of dawning
intensity

even though
she’s three.

My granddaugher, Micah.
I’ve read A Bad Case of Stripes to her over and over.
She anticipates events in the story now and comments on the drawings.
She studied this page a long time.

Her first sketch of her dad.

She made her dad tie a cape on her. “I’m Batman, she told him. “Read to the Batman.”

*******
with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge.
This is my ninth year participating alongside fellow teacher-writers.

Hark: the hawk

/ Fran Haley / 31 Comments

haiku for the king of our backyard sky:

from on high: the cry
this kingdom is mine mine mine
hear ye, hear ye, all

Our resident red-shouldered hawk was staking its territorial claim on Monday morning. If you look closely at the large tree branches in the center of the video frame, you will find it perched above the “play” arrow. The cry starts at 14-15 seconds in.

I think of hawk symbolism. I will include it below, because it’s fascinating, especially since I am sharing this with a community of writers taking on a daily challenge; I marvel at how much seems especially applicable. I will say that for me the hawk’s wild cry evokes something within that I cannot quite name. A longing, I think. Maybe to rise above the world with clearer vision. Maybe to have been an ancient warrior along green woodland paths, following the king’s bird. Maybe to respond, living thing to living thing, in natural communion as apparently existed before Genesis 9, when animals began to fear people. And, I daresay, likewise. Loss unimaginable.

As I wrote in yesterday’s post: I watch birds and am awed by the way they know and “read” so much. Instinct, you say. Well, of course. And extraordinary intelligence, I must add.

Here’s what artificial intelligence has to offer on red-shouldered hawk symbolism (do a search; this comes up with links):

The red-shouldered hawk can symbolize a variety of things, including guidance, strength, and the ability to see the bigger picture.

Guidance

  • A red-shouldered hawk can be a messenger from the universe, bringing support and insight 
  • It can be a sign that you should trust yourself and your inner wisdom 
  • It can be a reminder to explore the unknown and take risks to reach your goals 

Strength 

  • Hawks can represent strength, focus, and poise
  • They can show you your hidden abilities to lead yourself and others

Seeing the bigger picture

  • Hawks can help you see the bigger picture and avoid getting caught up in small details 
  • They can help you elevate your perspective and activate your inner sight 

Connection to the spirit realm 

  • A red-shouldered hawk can signify a powerful connection to the spirit realm

Vision 

  • The Cherokee believed that red-shouldered hawks are messengers of vision
  • They believed that when you see a red-shouldered hawk, whatever you were thinking about at the time is happening around you

Across cultures, hawks have been used to convey teachings and wisdom.

—There you have it, writer-friends. Hearken unto the calling.

Meanwhile, I know that as I stand watching this magnificent bird, it is watching me, with considerably less awe. I am simply on its turf.

*******

with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge.
This is my ninth year participating alongside fellow teacher-writers.

Three objects

/ Fran Haley / 23 Comments

Today’s WordPress prompt:

What are three objects you couldn’t live without?

Okay, so…I have troubles with this kind of prompt because I want to ask: Does this mean everyday stuff like my phone (!) or Ticonderoga Noir Black Wood-Cased #2 Holographic pencils (the only kind I use, my students absolutely covet them, and they have to be SHARP, as I can’t bear a dull pencil, so I guess that means I can’t live without a pencil sharpener, either) or coffee or my favorite coffee mugs or my emerald green floor-length plush hooded robe or good bedroom slippers? Clearly I cannot say my granddaughters and dogs, as they are not “objects,” but I can’t live without them, for sure…although I do not have a dog at present, so I guess I am, in fact, living without one, just with a profoundly deep and raw dog-sized hole in my soul…note to those of you who remember Dennis the dachshund: He’s fine. My youngest took him when he got married last fall. Happy for my boy, but…oh, every single day, I miss that dog. Not that I don’t miss my boy. It’s different. Just saying.

And (I should have mentioned this first) there’s my study Bible, which weighs about 20 pounds, full of notes and highlighting, plus a new notebook where I am pouring out my thoughts in response to Bible reading each day, thoughts which are written as tiny as I can make them (with my SHARP pencil) and still I run out of room to record them all…words spilling all around the margins…

So. Where does this leave me with naming “three objects I can’t live without”? So easy for characters in fantasy stories and fairy tales. The “Rule of Three.” Harry Potter: The Elder Wand, the Cloak of Invisibility, the Resurrection Stone. Three Bears: Bowls of porridge, chairs, beds.

What about essentials? Food, water, shelter…sounds like an unimaginative student response, right? These are givens. These defeat the purpose of the prompt.

All right. Enough mind-racing. Here goes.

I cannot live without:

My phone. First and foremost, for the connection to my children, then for the Internet because of my insatiable curiosity, and even for the Bible, as I can access the same study version as my printed 20-pounder, plus a wealth of cross-references, commentaries, and the meanings of words in the original languages. I can access pretty much anything I want to read on my phone, although I still love actual books best. If I have to choose just three objects I can’t live without, my phone is a pretty high-yield choice. Not to mention the camera (again, granddaughters) or the Notes app. Priceless for my compulsive list-making. I wanted to say I can’t live without my laptop, as it’s hard to do much “real” writing on my phone…but between the two, the phone wins out. And, if you hadn’t already: Please note the absence of the words “social media.”

My glasses. Not a fun choice but it’s the truth. My eyes are getting so much worse, y’all. Just got a new prescription and need to pick out frames in the next couple of days. As in ASAP. Not being able to read is a personal and professional complication of epic proportions…not being able to see is generally an isssue for ordinary daily life (-what truck? Oh-)…not to mention negating choice #1, my phone. You really do not want to know how big a font I am using to type this right now.

Birds. Is it cheating to include living things here? I mean, I didn’t say “dogs” (gasp!) and birds ARE a thing, a noun, as is an object, defined as “a material thing that can be seen and touched,” for let’s face it, birds CAN be seen and touched. They will even sit on your finger. The real truth: I couldn’t live in a world without birds. There are tons of ecological reasons, of course, but for me it’s a matter of the spirit. I am awed by birds: the power of flight, the songs, the behaviors that are anything but random, their nest-making artistry, how they know so much and observe so much…birds have often been a balm to my world-weary, aching soul. In recent weeks, when I was particularly discouraged, I saw bald eagles. Several times. This is rare. I could hardly believe it. Could hardly breathe. And then I cried. But strength flooded my veins. Soon the hummingbirds will return, looking for their feeder; they will hover at the bay window, peering in, somewhat imperiously, until I put the feeder out. The house finches have returned to the front porch but they don’t like the wreath on the door; it’s not my usual grapevine, as my husband said to NOT let the birds nest there again. He’s tired of not using the porch all spring and summer while the precious, prolific finches raise several broods. But the current pair keeps coming to check things out. They want so badly, so very badly, to nest here. They see me peeking through the blinds and return my gaze in puzzlement: Where’s the good wreath?! We shall see what they do…meanwhile, the finch song is the purest, sweetest music I have ever heard. Almost otherwordly. Ethereal. Vibrant. So full of hope and joy. How can I not welcome it? How can I not do my bit to bring more finch-song ino the world?

There you have it, friends. My three objects.

Although I still need a dog.

*******

with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge.
This is my ninth year participating alongside fellow teacher-writers.

Strewn with loss

/ Fran Haley / 33 Comments

Yesterday I wrote to the WordPress daily prompt on fate/destiny.

Today’s prompt:

What experiences in life helped you grow the most?

Loaded question.

My title today comes from a line I wrote in yesterday’s post. Will this be my pattern every day I take on the Slice of Life Story Challenge? Don’t know. We shall see.

As to this prompt about experiences…

Doesn’t most growth come from a place of pain?

*******

Dear Mom:

Someday I will do a better job of writing about this than what I am about to do now, but here goes.

I understand you have died. About a year ago.

I’ve not been able to find your obituary anywhere, nor your grave. Your plate on the headstone beside Daddy’s remains blank. My guess is that things were kept private, simple, as inexpensive as possible.

After twenty-three years without any contact, I have a few questions, but not much to say.

I have to say it, even though you’ll never know.

I got over my anger long ago. I had to, or it would have consumed me. I had young children of my own to care for; they were my priority. I now have two beautiful granddaughters. Your great-granddaughters, who will ask for the story, someday.

I got over my fear of your destructive behavior, which marked Daddy’s last years, and which shattered our family. I know it continued because, every so often in the ensuing decades, debt collectors would call my house looking for you. I would tell them the truth: I had no contact with you.

The pattern would not be broken, but people would. There could be no going back. Only forward.

I am past the point of blaming. We make our own choices. We paint our narratives in the colors of our liking, to our own purposes. To keep living with ourselves, I suppose, instead of changing. I chose the filter of Fact. Grannie once told me that she didn’t believe in divorce but she had to do it to survive your violent father. I didn’t believe in cutting ties with my own mother, either, but I had to do it, to survive. In the better part of you – for it was surely still there, somewhere – you would have understood this.

But I am not writing to justify or to judge. It’s not my place. It doesn’t matter now, anyway.

What I want to say is thank you.

Thank you for every sacrifice you made throughout my childhood. You did so much with so little.

Thank you for the sewing machine running late in the night, making our beautiful clothes.

Thank you for playing gospel records that I listened to when I was supposed to be asleep, and for the way you could paint and repair most anything.

Thank you for your humor and your unbridled cackling, contagious laughter; no one else laughed like you.

Thank you for being a safe haven for kids of troubled families in the neighborhood as well as for our neighbor who suffered a nervous breakdown. I see her frantic blue eyes, even now. Thank you for inviting the meanest bully of all to my birthday party without telling me, because you saw a child who was hurting inside, who needed to be part of something happy.

Thank you for advocating (surely, as I can’t imagine it was Daddy’s idea), to get my pet parakeet, and later for the puppies (which he forbade, to no avail; you won out).

Thank you trying to save my sick kitten, Edelweiss, which died in your hands while you tried to feed her with an eyedropper.

Thank you for your incredible creativity, the way you could whip up a costume like magic, and for coming so proudly to my school plays, your sisters in tow.

Thank you for pulling my wedding together, for mending the gown and veil from the discount racks so they’d be presentable, for weeping with sheer relief when Grandma offered to pay for the cake, and for making my all my bridesmaid dresses and my sky-blue going-away outfit. I recall you saying you were married in a blue dress; you didn’t have a wedding gown. And thank you for removing the iridescent white beads you wore to my wedding, pulling them off your neck to put around mine at the last minute, to set off that sky-blue dress as I was leaving.

I bet you thought I’d forgotten, all these long years since.

I have not. I remember it all.

As I said, one day I’ll write about it better than I can right now.

Just one more thing, as I sit by the window on this bright day, with winter fading and spring stirring in a wild dance of golden light and flickering shadows across my kitchen walls and floors: Thank you for taking me to church when I was a child. When I lost you to the darker part of yourself, I still had the church. The faith. The Lord. This has been my life. This has been the life of my family.

You might have forgotten many things. I might be one of them. I will never know.

But it’s okay. I choose to remember the good bits of you reflected in every shard I salvage from this story strewn with loss, set in motion long before I was ever in the world.

Some will say how sad, that no one ever never reached across the abyss to make amends.

I do not say this. I say it is over. The abyss is closed. Filled in. Time takes us all. The hurt is gone, although the healing will never be complete in this life.

I carry the shards.

Peace to you at long last, Mom.

P.S. I dreamed of you awhile back. Small and white-haired, but you looked well. You held your arms out to me in welcome.

“My baby has come home,” you said.

And I hugged you.

Because it was finally safe to love you again.

*******

with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge.
This is my ninth year participating alongside fellow teacher-writers,
as a means of continually honing the craft.

To those of you out there dealing with loss, death or otherwise:
Writing brings clarity.
Writing in community builds courage.

Write your story and trust.

The Heroes’ Hangout

/ Fran Haley / 27 Comments

Do you believe in fate/destiny?

That’s today’s WordPress prompt.

It’s beguiling, like the sword in the stone: Dare I grasp that jewel-encrusted hilt? Even if the sword should slide free of the rock (wonder of wonders!) will I have the strength to heft its ponderous weight, to actually use it? And to what purpose?

Here is what I believe: With every challenge comes opportunity; you cannot know the outcome until you seize it (ever how cold, heavy, terrifying the opportunity may be).

And so I put my hand to the hilt here with bits of a destiny story:

When I was a child, reading and writing were practically my life’s blood. Invaluable gifts for life’s journey. When the path took terrible turns through the darkest regions, strewn with loss…I could always read and write and pray my way through. Some encouraging soul, some sage, would also appear at every critical juncture to help guide me along, before I lost my way entirely.

Never in my wildest dreams did I expect to be a pastor’s wife (nor, most certainly, did many of my young acquaintances and their parents). But here we are, my husband and I, thirty-eight years in the ministry, standing on the the cusp of our fortieth wedding anniversary, with two grown sons and two granddaughters who are the joy of our days.

I never expected to be a teacher. I quit college at twenty and didn’t go back to finish until after my youngest started school. The way was circuitous, full of obstacles…impossibilities…even loneliness and more than a little despair…until the sword called Opportunity appeared, glittering there in the gray stone of Challenge. I put my hand to it, finally graduating from college with a teaching degree when my oldest was taking his first semester college exams. Today I work with students in the very things I loved best as a child: reading and writing.

Do you believe in fate/destiny?

I see the hand of God at work in all of it…that doesn’t discount destiny, now does it?

In this, my seventeenth year of teaching (a latecomer, oh yes, but it doesn’t matter, the story begins anew every day), another opportunity presented itself: Setting up a program and a space for volunteers to come and read books to students. The challenge: Where? Every space in the building was in use, except for a recessed area at the top of the stairs, where black-draped tables once housed student “artifacts”… with a little time, imagination, and the generosity of our PTA, this has become our Heroes’ Hangout:

In this space, children fall in love with books and stories. They laugh. They learn. They experience. They ask questions. They observe. They imagine. They are at the beginning of their own hero-stories.

For, after all, are not the ideas of fate, destiny, and hero inextricably intertwined?

I have had the opportunity to guide students with writing in this space. Here’s a cento poem (cento meaning “patchwork”) composed of completely borrowed lines, my favorites from poems my second-grade heroes have written:

I worry about me and heights
I cry over the iPad because Mom said no
I understand my dreams tease me
I see a fairy in the forest
I say mermaids are real
I wonder why people think Ohio is strange
I dream of going to Ohio
I try to be kind
I worry about animals dying
I hope all the endangered animals survive
I wonder if Dodo birds are still alive
I see a baby goat getting milk from its mother
I hope people never litter again
I understand that palm trees are not trees
I want ice cream for life
I try to be a better sister
I pretend I am brave and smart
I think Heroes’ Hangout is the best
I pretend I am the fastest thing alive
I worry I am going to lose my gravity
I touch Dog Man’s hat and it feels like victory
I hear my future.

Do you believe in fate/destiny?

You tell me.

I can just tell you that if you are looking for heroes…you will find children.

*******

with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge. This is my ninth year participating alongside fellow teacher-writers, as a means of continually honing the craft.

Confession: For the first time in nine years, I’d decided to not take up the Challenge.
Writing every day doesn’t seem sustainable right now. And maybe it isn’t.

But this morning, without any kind of plan, I got up and did it anyway.
Opporunity is here. WordPress provided a prompt. I reached. I pulled.

Your hand is on the hilt, my friends. You can do this!

Turning the page

/ Fran Haley / 2 Comments

February is nearly gone.

I flip the page in my daily planner to find this image on the March tab:

I am still, in contemplation of the message.

First thought: The Bible verse that has repeatedly reverberated throughout my life, ever since a youth minister gave me a plaque that hung on my bedroom wall during my teenage years: Psalm 46:10, Be still and know that I am God. The rest of which reads: I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.

A reminder that I can see so little of the big picture of events, why they unfold the way they do, and that I must trust even as life’s story takes dark and twisting turns. Even so, there’s awe to be found. Always. I am not the author of life, not even my own. Someday it will end, as it does for us all. In the meantime…living well means finding this stillness every day. Tapping into the underlying currents of perspective and meaning…here’s where writing becomes an invaluable gift. Sometimes you can’t know what you think or feel until you begin to write.

Within that stillness eventually comes gratitude for the gift of life itself, imperfect as it is. To what or whom is this gratitude directed? For me: God. Whatever sadness, mourning, grief, anger, irritation, guilt, worry that gnaws at my soul, it is stilled to submission, releases its hold, even evaporates like smoke in the wind, in my awe of God. Another verse: Luke 1:37, Nothing is impossible with God.

I know it to be true. When I was a teenager, I could never have envisioned my life now. I was an unlikely candidate for a minister’s wife. Today, my sons serve as pastor and church musician.

Awe. Awe. Awe.

I contemplate the illustration on my planner page. Living things are woven into the words Be still. The upper flowers appear to be cosmos, the Greek meaning orderly, harmonious; the opposite of chaos. These flowers attract pollinators which perpetuate life (note the butterfly). The garden cosmos is often symbolic of knowledge, beauty, and happiness. Be still and know…

The bottom bloom might be Italian leather flower, a form of clematis. A plant app tells me it was the first climbing vine introduced into the garden of Queen Elizabeth I. It has come to represent wisdom, royalty, high aspirations. I look at this bloom, with its leathery-strong petals, and think of resilience. Pereverance. Endurance. Faithfulness. Reliance.

The flower in the center, the least noticeable, seems to be sweet pea. It stands for goodbyes. And thank yous.

This journey called Life is inevitably strewn with pain, with loss, with goodbyes; yet along the path, if we will remember to stop and be still, we can find the sprouts of gratitude. The good is blossoming despite all. In the stillness, maybe only in the stillness, we can breathe that fragrance deep, and be strengthened.

Just the reminder I needed.

*******

with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the Tuesday Slice of Life Story Challenge

To Life and Lafo

/ Fran Haley / 8 Comments

A haiku story poem inspired by today’s prompt over at Ethical ELA, with thanks to Amber, our host.

The snow is too cold
and powdery for packing
but it’s the first time

in her three sweet years
we’ve had enough snow to try
making a snowman.

We scrape buckets full
as her little hands turn red.
She has no mittens.

I give her my own.
They’re far too big and floppy
but she doesn’t mind.

Face aglow with glee
she lugs the snow bucket to
her big sister who

creates a snow-heap.
Shifting, slippery, shapeless…
but we still love it

our tiny snow-mound.
Red and green Hershey’s Kisses
make a shiny smile.

Green olives for eyes.
A tiny tomato nose
(I’m out of carrots).

She proudly chooses
these facial features herself,
bringing her snowman

to life. I find twigs for arms
under the pines and Sister
crafts a tuft of hair

out of pine needles.
We name our snow-dwarf Lafo
(Olaf’s name scrambled).

Lafo has few days
as temperatures go back
to the seventies.

Traces of him stay
longer than I expected.
The Kisses fall off

and I salvage them
(as wild creatures shouldn’t eat
foil and chocolate).

Each day, the remains
of Lafo remind me of
my beloved girls

and that our time here
together is brief as snow.
Let us pack it well.

Our little Lafo

*******
with thanks also to the Two Writing Teachers Slice of Life community

Today

/ Fran Haley / 5 Comments

Today there is snow. After a recent local record of 1077 days without measurable snowfall.

Today I participated in a poetry group writing about aspirations for the future.

Today I had a hard time composing my thoughts, let alone my words.

Today I wondered if it is time to leave some writing communities I have loved and in which I’ve grown so much as a writer.

Today I took time to savor the holy hush in my backyard:

Today I marvel at nine inches of snow in New Orleans and six on the Outer Banks of my own state…

Today I acknowledge that anything is possible.

Today I contemplate my own words (written yesterday) about finding beauty despite brokenness.

Today, this is all I could manage for a poem on my aspirations for the future, beginning with the starter This is the year:

Imagine

This is the year
that we say
I love you
anyway.

Today, let’s try.