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1223 Willa Drive & Re-Imagining Norma in Eight Tercets

(On Cabbages and Kings, Poems 2012-2019, Aeolus House)

Dusting a book shelf, I came across a poem
venerating life in simple phrases
hopeful even in the face of illness.

From time to time
lines from them return
to haunt me.

We had a lot to say
that wouldn’t keep
till morning.

Always we have questions
_ questions that come too late
to be answered.

Do we have souls
that rise
when our bodies die?

Sometimes, I’m overwhelmed
with sadness
for all the poets who have passed.

I sense your spirit near
your haunting lines
filling my solitude

while sparks fly upwards
and words disappear
high in the darkening air.

1223 Willa Drive

A small house. One level. White. Understated. Minimalist. Set back. Deep lot. Front yard splendid with pulse of wind through hedge. Foreshadowed. Wind and sunshine filtered through tall pines.

And yet inside. Treasure trove collected over the years. Paintings and books. Sundry found on your way through life. Momentos taken up from paths of the Wawanosh wetlands or wave ripples along Lake Huron and the St. Clair. Keepsakes. Tokens. Cupped and warmed by your hand and imagination. Clues. Reminders. Life and the world’s boundless beauty.

And you, so dignified in the arm chair by the window. Dappled afternoon light. Chiaroscuro. You luminous. The way your words stilled and distilled, brilliant with joy and sorrow, carved and cut from the elements of everyday existence. Depth and detail This room. Warm with generosity. Love and hope.

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