Through a Darkened Pane (page 59)

snowbird

300 hits since Wednesday!

Wow!

Impressive!

I can never think to check.

Syl

BabaYaga

(Baba giggles at CoCo's "Something, something"!)

Have fun at the oaks, Dear CoCo!

ziddina

Hi, Baba!! Long time, no see! [waves... ]

Hello, Co Co!!! Hi, Sylvia!!!

[Will be gone for a while - in fact, gotta start packing right now...]

Hugs and kisses!!! (((((XXXXXX)))))

Zid

snowbird

Hi, Ziddina!

Bye, Ziddina!

Travel safely now.

Syl

snowbird

Trees

I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree.

Alfred Joyce Kilmer, killed in action in World War I, 1918.

One of the "generation" of 1914.

Syl

As mindless rage swelled within the young mother to the point of bursting and letting fly its emotional shrapnel, young footsteps padded silently up the mossy cement walk. Hesitant, never knowing in what condition he might find his best friend's capricious health, Billy Tobias knocked softly but resolutely upon the old bungalow door. And again, seconds later, but with less the soft touch and more the determination to ask after Andy's mercurial state. Too long, too long a separation from necessary connection. Bad health or not, friends need to connect on some level, any level.

The murderous reverie of resurfacing memory was abruptly shattered. An insistent yet otherwise politely restrained rap, rap, RAP at the front door was echoing through Elizabeth's cluttered living room and head.

"Mommy, do you want me to answer the door?" asked a little boy who was all too aware of his mother's mental walkabouts. Who, besides the tortured soul herself, could know the true nature of the snarling beast within? And did even she understand? Though not privy to his mother's secret, Andy's uncannily precocious manner - one of patient insight into his beloved parent's mood swings - was good medicine. Mommy's mind returned to home base, wearily so, however.

"No Babe, you're not well today, remember? Get back on the couch. I'll see who's at the door ... what's that in your hand?" vacantly inquired this unwitting survivor, bruised and beaten, but saved again from total meltdown by her son.

Quandry

Snowbird,

I love that poem by Alfred Kilmer. It was set to music...I don't know when, but I remember hearing it when I was in elementary school. It was sung during a program by the 6th grade choir. This was in the 1950's when elementary was 1-6th grades. I was enthralled by it at so young an age...I couldn't have been in more than the third grade.

BabaYaga

More, CoCo, more! And what IS in Andy's hand?

compound complex

Baba asked:

More, CoCo, more! And what IS in Andy's hand?

...

Love,

CoCo

Through a Darkened Pane

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