These small tasks that maybe need

doing like basting the meat, taking

one set of sheets up and one down.

I hung the small paintings in their small

corner to remember Tuscany by as if

leaving them on the dresser could

cause me to forget


gray days are in plenty this time

of year. It goes with the drip of rain

through dwindling leaves, this draining

of my heart-well: clean, scour, overhaul

and wait for something better. It’s okay

to sit here knitting, okay to hanker

for silence and slumber. It is not winter—

the streams still run, sluggish, under

leaf-mould, damped-down—but soon

the frost, the bite, that memory of being

alive to the ambitions of spring. Please God,

remind me to pray for the green

in us all, a reason to cry

and to care.


4 thoughts on “Welling”

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