Mothflour

Night chorus

Dusk chorus, rail track, river.

Raisin Sourdough Bread- I milled the whole wheat flour, fed the sourdough starter, made the dough; my favorite part is a dash of coriander.

White lace, flowers, jewelry, candles, pebbles, an earbud; respect for Emily still and always         

“Called Back” 

I walked away from her home and down the street to her grave.  Lady in white, my heart’s kin

Emily Dickinson’s house; the white oak knew her life.  So many of her years, she never left.

Down the street from her house, yet she wouldn’t go.  I understood somehow.

A pilgrimage to Amherst to pay homage to Emily Dickinson, passing her family’s church

Evening chorus; almost home.

I wish to ask these large river tricksters to adopt me, nudge me on as their cousins once did.

A large owl perched on top of the flagpole just down the hill from my door.

Just past my front door the sprawling forest, laden with snow.  Broken open, no longer a snowglobe world.

And all the bare trees told him, let go, let go.

Crow tracks, just outside my door.