"Although all poets aspire to be birds, no birds aspire to be poets.”

~ Mary Ruefle, from “My Search among the Birds,” in The Iowa Review

Not ice, really, more like slush. The world is made of slush this morning and the skytent is old bleached canvas stretching far and far. A darkish day all day. Except for the tree bark in the brook. Wet, it’s a rich patchwork of shades of yellow, gold, red. burnt umber. Little windows open the brook. We walk for awhile, not in a hurry. A bit dizzy, sneezy, lightheaded but not unhappy. There is some birdsong. Frank and I drive to take his mother to lunch and meet the kids and all say a happy new year to each other. And on the way, it suddenly occurs to me: It’s twenty-five years ago this New Year that we left Florida to live here in New England with Landon and Perri. Twenty-five years! He took a job with the Cleaver Company, and I closed my practice and we moved Landon out of first grade and started him here. How happy, how beyond happy they were to finally live near all their cousins. It was a wet, stormy, snowy January and none of us had boots. I was so grateful to be surrounded by my family, my brothers and sisters, my parents, my nieces and nephews and aunts and uncles. So much change all at once. And making time for my writing became possible. So many new beginnings all at once for the New Year: 1995. I will wake into a new decade. And a new quarter century to journey through. With you, my readers. Thank you for following my blog and reading, when you can, and commenting, when you do. I am wishing you a happy new year, tonight. I am wishing you a peaceful and mindful and courageous and beautiful journey into the new century.