All In June

- W.H. Davies

A week ago I had a fire

To warm my feet, my hands and face;

Cold winds, that never make a friend,

Crept in and out of every place.

Today the fields are rich in grass,

And buttercups in thousands grow;

I'll show the world where I have been--

With gold-dust seen on either shoe.

Till to my garden back I come,

Where bumble-bees for hours and hours

Sit on their soft, fat, velvet bums,

To wriggle out of hollow flowers.

A Beautiful Tribute to a Beloved Mother . . .

After losing her mother to brain cancer, Kirsty Mitchell created this beautiful series in her honor. This piece is entitled The Storyteller. (Kirsty's mother was an English teacher) Check out more of Kirsty's work {HERE}.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM

Things Shouldn't Be So hard
by Kay Ryan

A life should leave
deep tracks:
ruts where she
went out and back
to get the mail
or move the hose
around the yard;
where she used to
stand before the sink,
a worn out place;
beneath her hand,
the china knobs
rubbed down to
white pastilles;
the switch she
used to feel for
in the dark
almost erased.
Her things should
keep her marks.
The passage
of a life should show;
it should abrade.
And when life stops,
a certain space
—however small—
should be left scarred
by the grand and
damaging parade.
Things shouldn't
be so hard.

Sorry for the babbling.

As Banned Book Week comes to a close, I can't help but reflect on my memories of growing up in a home filled with books. There were book cases lining the walls, stuffed to capacity. There were books under tables, in closets, under beds, even behind the furniture. Any gift giving occasion was a chance to receive a new book, and as we grew older we kept a wish list for Santa, the Easter bunny, and all their pals to choose from.



It was a home where no one said, "you must read." We learned from the examples around us. Reading was like breathing in our home. Every body did it. The literature vs. television war was all the rage at the time. But unlike many of our peers, we were never made to choose between reading and popular culture, so the two never became mutually exclusive.




Our reading choices were our own. No one said, "You can't read that." I know my parents must have cringed occasionally at my choices. But they never said no. What did they do? They talked to me. They asked questions. They listened. They guided my explorations but never stifled them. For that I am eternally grateful. Like John Locke they believed, "Reading furnishes the mind only with materials of knowledge; it is thinking that makes what we read ours." We learned, not just to read, but to think about what we read. My mother and I talked about this a couple years ago, not long before she died. She shared her own experiences growing up, and we laughed until the tears fell.


My children were raised in the same kind of home. And the legacy is now being passed on to the next generation, my grandchildren.

... like a dreamwalker

I've been thinking about my mom this morming. I miss the sunday talks, about what I had coming up in the week, among other things. My mother was quite reserved, not at all like me, (I take after my dad) and pretty serious; but she was a magical pre-school teacher, And when she worked for CPS she was fearless in defense of children. She thought I was a bit "high strung," but she believed in me unwaveringly. I miss you mom.

Lucille Clifton poetry today, I think.

my mamma moved among the days
like a dreamwalker in the field;
seemed like what she touched was hers
seemed like what touched her couldn't hold,
she got us almost through the high grass
then seemed like she turned around and ran
right back in
right back on in

Lucille Clifton, good woman:poems and a memoir 1969-1980