Fishermen

We fished all night but
caught nothing, nil. Go back out
to the deep water
and let down your nets for a
catch, He says. Really?
we tried that already, I
say. But if you say
so, I will let out the nets.
(here goes nothing, I
mutter under my breath.) Well,
I let out those darn
nets and wouldn’t you know it:
they come up so full
they’re breaking, I kid you not.

Corsage Queue

Teenage boys waiting
in line to buy flowers?!? Ah
yes: Winter Formal.

Let Night Come

One of my very favorite poems is Jane Kenyon's "Let Evening Come." For me, it has been a day full of rain and teenage moodiness, which kind of hovers over the scene like, well, a raincloud--not that I'm complaining! It's just been that kind of day, and I'm ready to let evening come. Only it's already quite late here, so my end-of-day homage to Kenyon refers to the night. Please do read her poem; it's simple and lovely and just about perfect.


Let the rain patter against the dark windows
Let the lights on the hill fade one by one
Let the dog and cat rest by the flickering fire
Let night come

Hiking to Columbier Beach

Just over three years ago, David and I went to a beautiful, magical island in the Caribbean--St. Barts--with our close friends Mark and Sarah Metherell. It was the first and only time we took a vacation with them alone--just the two of them with the two of us. It was an absolutely perfect week, and a time that I will never, never forget. We miss Mark terribly. As many of you know, he was killed in Iraq on April 11, 2008. Tomorrow, February 5 is Mark's birthday. He would have been 41 years old.


We parked our boxy
rental car and hiked into
a kind of Eden,
traveling up a rocky
path hemmed in by tall
grass, flowering plants, cacti.
Up up up we walked
for what felt like a very
long time, then crested
the hill. Catching sight of the
pale-gold sand and deep
blue water we greedily
scrambled down to the
beach. Shedding backpacks, shoes, and
sweaty t-shirts we
raced into the placid sea,
and laughed and laughed, for no reason other
than that somehow we four were
halfway around the world, swimming
off a floral-scented island
under a warm December sun.

Breach of Contract

Kitty, you’re supposed
to take mice out, not bring them
in the house. You’re fired.

Ann's Room

Earlier today I attended the funeral of Ann Frame, my friend Pamela's mother. Ann was a spirited, intelligent woman whose many accomplishments included being a skilled sailor and marine biologist. During the service the minister read from John's gospel, the passage in which Jesus says, "In my Father's house are many rooms; if it were not so I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you."

The minister went on to describe what Ann's room in heaven might be like, based upon the stories of those who knew and loved her best.


A sunny window
facing the bay. The warm weight
of a sleeping cat.
Your favorite chair, deep and
inviting. Books at
hand and family close by.
It's all here.
Ann, come in;
your room is ready.

United Flight 162

I flew to Boston today to attend the funeral of my friend Pamela's mother, Ann Frame. I never got the chance to know Ann well--we met only briefly a few years ago. But Pamela is a friend who has at times dropped everything to swoop in with love and encouragement when I needed it most, so I would go nearly to the ends of the earth to try to do the same for her.

Air travel is a wonderful, amazing thing that also freaks me out if I think about it too hard.


"Watch your elbows and
knees, please, elbows and knees," chants
the flight attendant
in a sing-song cockney voice,
pushing the beverage
cart down the aisle. This strikes me
as funny. As I
hurtle through the air in a
metal shell, strapped to
a foam seat, going
six hundred miles per hour at
thirty thousand feet,
my elbows and knees
are the least of my worries.