untangling the web

poetry about and photography of everyday happenings and sights


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A Satisfying Morning

Sun low on the horizon,

daffodils shimmering,

grape hyacinths opening,

lily leaves pushing through,

yellow forsythia flowing,

swish of pine needles

on the path, chill air 

on my cheek, jingle 

of the leash, the quiet 

of a Sunday morning.

Delicate tendrils of

weeping willows,

white petals of 

Bradford pears,

ripples on the lake,

and the redbud

producing beauty 

off its gnarled branches.

Raucous voice of 

a lone crow, soft

peeps of birds

foraging, the feel

of my foot as it

hits the ground,

rat-a-tat-tat of

a woodpecker

topped off by

the heron who

flew majestically

up as we neared.


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A Snowy Morning

The earth was hushed 

that morning and a light

snow was falling, uniting

ground and sky, the still

and the moving, brown and

white. Pine needles on the 

path were covered by snow 

highlighting an intricate 

design like a fisherman’s net 

or spider’s web, an encounter

between life and death. 

The cosmos was showing off

its artistry in twisted bare 

branches, in an ethereal

light on a skim of ice, in

things seldom observed.

Nature was sparking the

imagination with the 

magnificence of creation 

with no intention other

than to simply enchant.


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Keepers

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.


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Paying Attention

On a cold morning

with thoughts scampering

in and through, words formed

and then forgotten, 

Luna and I walked

and mused, then stopped and 

paid attention. We

saw poetry on a 

twig, in frost-covered

grass, and flashing off 

a mallard’s green head.

We heard it in the

bird song, and sniffed it 

in the sharp, clean air.


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January 4, 2023

A blue jay brings a vivid flash of color to

the reedy branches of a naked bush

beside the pond. Songs of a

robin sweeten the air and

a mallard couple, he with

his emerald green head

and yellow beak, swim

from the shore barely

missing four geese who

peacefully approach. The

heads of the mallard couple

begin to pulse up and down to

their own tempo. Hissing brakes 

of a school bus assault the peace 

and Luna swishes her way amidst the 

pine needles and I wonder what she senses.


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Running Cedar

On this morning’s walk with

Luna, I see the running

cedar scampering through

the woods and stop and

pull up one strand and

then another until my

hands are full, reminding

me of the search for it

and mistletoe so many

years ago. I put it in a tub

of water to soak when

I get home and add some

holly and boxwood, and

thoughts of how to use

them float through my mind.

Now as I lie here I wonder

if I will use them with the 

creche or on the mantelpiece

or maybe on the railing.

Will there be enough?

Will I have the energy?

I really don’t know, but you

know what? It’s okay

if I don’t; I just enjoyed

finding and gathering it.


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Does It Really Matter?

I remember the Christmases

when I made everything…

a boxwood wreath, a kissing 

ball, an apple pineapple tree,

seven different kinds of cookies,

hot fudge sauce, and bourbon

nut bread to name a few…

and one year furniture for a 

doll house. No artificial greens 

dared appear in my home! 

And now at 80,

my large and small trees

are artificial, and the greens

around my lamp post and

mailbox are fake as is one

inside wreath. The one on

the door is real only because

it was a gift! My younger self

would be appalled but my

80-year-old self just smiles

and wonders how I had

the energy to do what I did!