One bag of six to twelve months age baby girl clothing.

Special occasion dresses, good enough

to pass along.

If you are looking for those work-a-day wear items,

they will not be here.

Those onesies with first meals smeared

along the cuffs and collars,

stretched out sleepers,

pants wearing at the knees from first bouts of crawling.

Those are tucked away in a little box.

The one I have allowed myself

filled with the small trinkets collected

here and there to remind me. If I have tears

in my eyes when I hand them over, pay no mind.

It’s not you,

it’s me.


I just had to go through them.

Like they were calling me from the basement,

reminding me I would not be needing them again.

No sense in them moldering away.

word smithing

This month, April, being poetry month we are working on our words. *last year we did weekly poetry projects*


Using an exercise from Frances Mayes, The Discovery of Poetry: A Field Guide to Reading and Writing Poetry (found via this post) we flipped through dictionaries and wrote down words that caught our eye. Eldest son and I work on our writing several times a week together and so changing things up was fun. The Dictionary of Etymology was an eye opening experience for him. Words change?!

him:  annul  commoner  phonic  perpetual  lander  junk  henchman  historian  grackle  dishonesty  compete  cinch  annul

me:  kinetic  pinion  locquacious  bramble  dobbin  hush  ibex  hyphen  mollify  yelp  dregs  frowzy  praxis  tabulate  syrup  talon  hooligan  warble  drought  laud


p.s. this morning we awoke to snow. king winter will not rest quite yet.


what is behind us and what is before us

permanent residency, we have landed

dual citizenship?



the marker of 11 years touches a nerve 

that 10 left unfrayed


a calm belonging

finding a safe inlet

the subtle collecting of others castoffs                                                                                                                       

fabric scraps, half used skeins of yarn. the curating                                                                                                   

of crap. a wrapping                                                                                                                                                     

myself in others histories                                                                                                                                           

the sailing in to the future

filling bags to pass



our load

the birth of this baby has pushed the reset button

the birth of this baby has pushed the reset button