Rustling of dry
leaves underfoot,
sun slanting
through pines,
clickety clack
of a train
far, far away,
Luna sniffing
here and there,
horse droppings
on the side,
pine needles
cushioning feet,
shell-shaped fungi
on downed trees.
Listen and look.
It’s all there
waiting for you.
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?
Note: At a recent meeting of my 70+ (now 80+!) group of women, our assignment was to share “keepers,” in other words moments in our lives, past or present, that brought us joy. Mine are in this poem.
There was the time recently
When Luna and I were on
A visit to the County Jail
And she remembered a
Young man from another
Visit and curled up
Against him, and when he
Moved on to another dog
She went over and licked
His ear as if to say, come
Back to me, we have a
Special bond. And he grinned.
And on that same visit I
Can see the tattooed
Young man rolling on
The floor with a blind
Dog who knew him
By his smell and brought
To him moments of
Pure joy and a memory
Of the outside world.
And then there were
Those hours on a
Sunday afternoon when
We celebrated poetry
And women’s friendships,
A gift from my family
That will never be
Forgotten as I see
Each face and hear
Each voice and immerse
Myself in the memory
Of a perfect gift.
Three dogs met in Deep Run Park. They
wagged their tails, sniffed,
and kissed. One was
brown and white, one
black, and one brown. One was big and
one medium,
one was small. No
exclusion here.
What if, like those dogs, humans saw
other humans,
not color, race,
only humans?
While I work,
she softly sleeps
on the tan couch,
head on its arm,
paws touching,
a parcel of
brown and white,
curled in a ball of warmth.
I wonder what she is dreaming.
Is she sniffing her way around the pond,
testing the thin ice on its edge,
pausing to smell a cedar tree,
jumping when a heron takes flight?
Or is she in the dog park
cautiously greeting other dogs,
racing around the perimeter,
stopping occasionally to
make sure I am still there?
What a comfort to know that
when I move,
she will open her hazel eyes
and track my every step,
waiting to see
if it is time to follow.
What more could the world offer
at this moment, this very moment?
Striding ahead on Pine Trail
in Powhatan State Park,
energized by cooler air,
I almost trip and fall,
and am reminded that
I might be missing that
for which I have come,
so Luna and I
stop, look, and listen.
A canopy of trees overhead
keeps us almost dry
as the gentle rain hits
leaves far above
and plops on those below.
I see wet and glistening
Sassafras, and
shy, striped Wintergreen,
soft green moss,
and a path strewn
with rusty pine needles.
I hear birds chattering
to their neighbors
and squirrels foraging.
Only a distant plane
interrupts the peace
that comes to those
walking in the woods.
Who could ask for more?
Right here, right now,
I have everything I need.
My husband and I and our dog Luna drove into the city yesterday to hike across the new Potterfield Bridge and then through the woods and back across the James River to Belle Isle, an island located at the fall line of the James with a beautiful view of the rapids as well as Hollywood Cemetery and the Richmond skyline. The day was perfect for a long hike—cool and sunny after several days of rain. Many people were out to enjoy the water and the fresh air — young and old, black and white and brown, dogs and children.
Belle Isle has not always been a happy place. During the Civil War it was an open-air Confederate prison camp with minimal shelter. The facility was built for 3,000 prisoners but reports say that this number was doubled or tripled at times. This overcrowding resulted in multiple health issues and the heat in the summer and cold in the winter added to the prisoners’ problems. A sign on the island says that 1,000 Union soldiers perished while there.
As we sat on the rocks at water’s edge refreshing our tired feet in the cold James River, Luna nearby, I could not help but wonder what the 1,000 Union soldiers who died on this island would think if they knew people were still fighting the war for which so, so many gave their lives.
On his last day he sat between
his parents in
the front seat with
the wind ruffling
his fur, and reviewed his old haunts,
ate fried chicken,
and enjoyed full
attention, love.
When the vet came to put him down,
he showed no fear,
as if he knew
the end was near.
untangling the web 