untangling the web

poetry about and photography of everyday happenings and sights

Author Archives: BHW


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The Wooden Blocks

After a cleanout frenzy today, 

we gave away the wooden blocks,

the ones kept in the big wicker

basket on the coat closet floor,

the ones all three of you used 

to build bridges and houses and

roads, the ones that little boy

with the chubby fingers ran

his matchbox cars over, the ones

his sisters used to build towers

and let him knock them down, 

setting off infectious laughter.

It was bittersweet to give them 

away, but none of you wanted them.

I would like to think some lucky child 

will be thrilled when his mother snaps 

them up at the Goodwill on Broad. 

That child will not see the fingerprints 

of our children, grandchildren, great

nieces and nephews or mine,

but they are all there and hold

so many memories of those 

precious times when you were

all so young and full of joy.

Photo by Valery Fedotov on Unsplash


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Glimpses

As I drove along on

this cold, grey morning, 

a flash of red caught

my eye, then three more,

as four cardinals flew from 

the middle of the road and 

disappeared into the white woods.

Later this morning through 

the window during yoga I gazed 

at a big tree that has captured

my heart, its snow-kissed branches

stretching protectively over the 

courtyard of an old stone church,

filling the space with its gracefulness. 


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Synchronicity

As Luna and I ambled around

the pond on this clear, new 

morning with grass kissed by

frost, I began reciting out loud

as I often do Wendell Berry’s

The Peace of Wild Things.

At the very moment I

reached “and the great heron

feeds,” a great blue heron

flew the length of the pond.

Was this a coincidence,

synchronicity, or divine plan?


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Home After Surgery

The feel of my own sheets.

Soft pillows without

a rubbery covering.

Luna curled beside me.

Blessed quiet with no

beeping machines, no

wakeups at 3 a.m. for 

chest x-rays, or a roommate

with the TV blaring.

No tangle of tubes and

no more poking and prodding.

A daughter who took over 

communication with family

and friends. A son who experienced

the trauma of post-surgery complications

without alarming me. The Betty Brigade 

bringing delicious food each day.

A husband who changed

the sheets. Sleep, blessed sleep!

Daughters and granddaughter

changing my bandages with

calmness and professionalism.

Quiet visits from my circle of women.

And the list continues to grow.

Oh, do we ever take for

granted the small blessings

of this life. I thought I was 

aware of them but this 

“unwelcome visitor” has 

seared their importance

into my very being and 

I am thankful for that.

(But not for the “unwelcome visitor!”)


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Emerald Isle

Enveloping darkness,

and then slowly behind

a bank of clouds a

half circle of light 

peeks out and grows

into a full sphere,

signaling another

blue-sky day.

Barely a soul in sight,

walking toward the

rising sun, we make

the first prints in the 

sand. On our left 

seagrass swaying, on 

our right crashing

waves and seagulls.

This is creation.


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Remnants of the Past

On a dusty trail framed

by woods, there is a split.

One can choose to go

to the right or the left.

In the triangle formed by

the split are the ruins

of an old log cabin. The

stone chimney still stands

tall and a stone foundation

outlines the room. All 

else is gone with no trace 

of its former inhabitants.

I wonder who lived there

and when? Was it a

family or perhaps a 

bearded hermit who

loved his solitude and

discouraged strangers

from approaching? Or

perhaps there was a 

girl who ran wild and

barefoot in the spring 

and summer marveling

at the wild flowers and

learning which plants

soothed a stomach ache

or a sore throat or brought

a fever down. I’d like to

think her parents whiled

the dark nights of winter

away telling her tales

about times past. Perhaps

there was a traveling librarian

who came by on her mule

and loaned her books to read.

I picture her curled up

by that old stone fireplace

at night totally lost in the 

words on the page. What 

happened to her? Did she 

grow up to be a medicine

woman or maybe a traveling 

librarian herself spreading 

her love for books to other 

young girls. I will never know

who the inhabitants of that 

old cabin were or when they

were there, but my imagination 

enables me to make up a 

story that lights up my soul.


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The Bluebird and the Red Truck

You dash from the fir tree

to the sideview mirror

of the big red truck by

the lake. You hover, steal

a look, then flit away,

in your excitement, 

leaving a memento of 

yourself on the door.

On and on you peek

and peck, then dash 

away to a branch.

Are you really that

vain or do you see

a potential partner, 

shying away when

she gets too close?

I wonder how long it 

will take before you

see your error, or will

it end when the fishermen

take out and load their

boats and drive away.

In that moment will

you lament the loss

of a possible love or will

you recognize that you

were seeing yourself?


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When the World Makes No Sense

When the world makes no sense

and I am weary of its horrors,

I close my eyes and imagine myself

in the Blue Ridge Mountains, see

the purple and pinks of its sunrise,

the shadows in its ridges.

I imagine myself where Native 

Americans once lived, respected

the earth and its animals, and

I see the wildflowers and plants

used by wise women as medicines. 

I look up and see a hawk slowly

swooping in circles and floating

lazily among the clouds. My

body relaxes and my soul is fed.


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This and That

There is this:

Another shooting by

an angry young man,

bombs falling in Ukraine,

more books banned,

a decision reversed by

men who have never

been pregnant,

acts of hate increasing,

and a budget that

cannot be settled by

pontificating politicians.

And then there is this:

On a cool morning

gentle rain is falling,

soft moss surrounds

an old tree in the woods,

a magnolia blossom

graces a tree on the 

side of the road, and

the wood thrush’s throaty

voice calls among

other birds twittering.