About those tomatoes . . .

Oops.

In the last blog post

a photo of tomatoes on the vine

prompted the recall of

a long-ago poem.

I thought the first two lines were:

clothes on the line

tomatoes on the vine

BUT!

Today I remembered the correct version:

flowers on the vine

bermudas on the line

summer came and 

summer went and 

no one fed the swine.

++

Ho! 

Flowers!
Bermudas!

No tomatoes!

Brains are amazing storehouses . . .

xx

Tomatoes on the vine . . .

Yesterday I brought in these

unripened tomatoes

to save them from frost

but seeing them today

jolted me back to a poem

I wrote and published

(in a small journal)

over thirty years ago

I'm still looking for a copy of the poem

but here are the lines

I can remember so far:

clothes on the line

tomatoes on the vine

summer came and summer went

and no one fed the swine . . .

Well!

I didn't say it was a good poem.

xx

The Boy on the Porch: Beginning

Usually I begin writing a story when a clear and insistent image appears in my mind of a character and a place. That initial image often becomes the opening image of the book, as it does here:

I'm curious about that boy and the people who find him, and so I write the story to learn more.

I hope that readers will be curious, too, and will read the story to learn more. . . and will like what they read.

xx

Water and Rock

The only noise

is 

water against rock

water against rock

water against rock

xx

(Acadia National Park, Mt. Desert Island, Maine)

The Original Cubism

Wicked storms blew through

trees down

power out for twelve hours

One result, from the fridge: 

My husband calls it

'the original Cubism'

xx

Communing with Ocean, part two

You are lured in by

the tree-framed view

to stand on the rocks

and breathe

to kneel by water's edge

and admire.

It is good to disappear

into such grandeur

xx

Communing with Ocean

The pull of the ocean is so strong

sun  sand  water

rocks  seaweed  shells

bliss

xx

Sheep Talk

There was some

sheep talk

going on

at the fair

in 

Union, Maine:

I was eavesdropping.

xx