The farmer’s wife found him—
half alive seeking milk
from lifeless teats.
Birthing took the old cat’s life.
He was her last.

The woman hand-weaned him.
Days. Weeks.

Dave brought him to me,
You need a barn cat.
He stayed.

Henry was restraint.
We were restraint.
Had to be.
He was feral.

He sat with me
on the small porch bench…
one foot away.

In winter, we watched snow fall.
In summer, thundering storms.
In autumn, we pondered the silver moon;
listened to the sound of leaves.

I drank tea.
He sipped cream from a saucer.
Henry sat straight, noble.
Purring.

He was large, sinewy—
fast.

He climbed the tree, snatched the nest,
eating the fledglings.
The mother screeched,
circling the tree.

At six months, he brought home a falcon.
How did he capture his predator?

The following morning,
a kaleidoscope of feathers formed a circle;
a talon at the center.
All lay outside my cabin door.

I was appalled,
intrigued, too.

Henry shone his reality,
not in metaphor,
but in blood and guts and beauty.
We sat in the hush of us
listening to raindrops.

Henry is dead.
I woke at 4 a.m.
Made tea.
Still, warmed his milk.

The mountain man knocked.
I found him under the old chestnut.
No harm. One drop of blood under his nose.

It rained all day.
I sat on our bench.

About the Art

Title: ‘Henry In Winter’
Copyright: 1999 (Photograph)
Artist: Lee Anne Morgan

The candle burns to its nub.
The scent of incense departs.
My tea, now cold.

Sadness visits a hollow cave in my heart
for what no longer is.

Opening my eyes,
tears stream down my cheeks.

Yet… I smile.

Clouds create veiled, filtered light.
In measured slowness,
the breakfast table is set.
Tears are gone.
So is the smile.

My mind fragments.
A pendulum swings
between the sweetness of spring
and a friend who now speaks in tongues—
once brilliant, now adrift.

I sit. Not hungry.
Craving everything.

He arrives perched on a thin branch in high winds.
He returns when clouds reign—
the only color amid brown, sharp-edged things.

Hello, my friend. You visit often this week.
What have you to say?

He sits. I eat.
I speak with him. Silently.
He knows when I’m finished.
The limb is bare once more.

Angels are absent—human and unseen.
Who speaks?

At 82,
pain passes through me,
or settles in.

You are paying dues
for doing what you once loved.

I see it—
dancing, hard work, the body challenged.
So young. Agile. Graceful.

Nothing can hurt me.

Runner for decades
on New York City pavement.

Nothing can hurt me.

Motorcycle riding in my fifties.
Bubba, my horse—
wind in the face,
galloping uphill,
across meadows.

A time, long ago, in Camelot.

Nothing can hurt me.

It hurts now.
I refuse.

Hubris?

Embarrassing—
not walking straight, steady.
Where is the gracefulness
I assumed forever?

This terrifies me.

Is this humiliation, or humbling?

Where are the angels now?
Who saves, soothes, protects?

I ask. Silence.

These inner thresholds are no longer cushioned.
Four walls and church organs do not comfort.

That was another time.

Wait.

Birdsong greets my early mornings.
The cardinal keeps me company.

And memories—
recorded.
Radical acts of writing.

Fragments.
Passages.

The pendulum swings—
birth,
death.

A half smile returns
as the earth gives birth—again.

I pay attention
to small astonishments.

The red cardinal
on a thin branch in high winds.

How does he hold on?

How do I hold on?

I don’t know.

Perhaps the red one is an angel.
And the stag in November snow.

The bark of an ancient tree—
home still
to millions of living beings—
reveals a hidden language.

A mug of freshly brewed tea.

These things.

Important.

Dive deeper, Lee Anne.

No.
There are wounds.

Walk into them.

Who speaks to me?

You do.

so be it

About the Art

Title: ‘So Be It, Says She’
Copyright: 2026 (Photograph)
Artist: Lee Anne Morgan

About The Art

Title: ‘To Create’
Copyright: 2026 (Photography/Painting/Wax)
Artist: Lee Anne Morgan

I stand at my open windows, both hands wrapped around my favorite tea mug. Yes, the one with a small chip in the handle. Have I not mentioned this imperfection before?

Another time, then.

Steam rises from the hot tea and joins the mist outside. I stand witness in wonderment as mist rises and weaves through the trees in my woodlands—more like an ancient forest this morning. Birds are in full voice, a chorus of song, never the same. Trees leaf out before my eyes. Flowers appear.

Cherry blossoms, everywhere!

Does this extravaganza happen overnight?

One day, nothing catches the eye. In the wake of morning, Mother Earth speaks softly, offering her gifts of spring.

Still.

About the Art

Title: ‘Our Rural Cemetery’
Copyright: 2023
Artist: Lee Anne Morgan

(Late afternoon. The River rippled its own rhythm. No breeze. A cloudless sky, sun suspended for brief seconds. Blue water. Golden reeds.)

Dear Friends,

A soft note to say I’ve been working quietly—
with images, with fragments, with a book that is asking for more time than I expected.

Some of what I’m making now doesn’t move quickly.
It asks to be lived with, not sent out.

I’ll still be here, though less often—
and perhaps differently.

Thank you, as always, for reading and for staying.

—Lee Anne

(A pending storm moves in beauty. Black tree limbs hum something ancient— standing taller under the weight of sky.)

It’s a beautiful dream.
Wake.
Not yet.
A little longer, please.

I wore a large-brimmed sun hat and garden gloves and was on my knees holding a small trowel, digging and fussing in my English rose garden and the sun was bright but not hot—and I was truly happy.

How I loved this garden, the scent of roses mixed with moist earth.

A man walked over. I did not know him. Or did I? He carried a tray with a pot of English tea, the scent of Earl Grey. We sat in the shade of the veranda and talked of the nobility of the rose.

He picked a white rose from a vase on the table and tucked it behind my ear.

I woke not with a startle, but with tears.
Not sadness, only peace.
I realized it was noon.

I realized, too,
that the First Page was no longer mine.

Two mornings earlier, I started writing
and wrote until I couldn’t.

Two days later,
the First Page was gone.

You’ll get it back.

no

The page belonged to another time—
when everything stopped,
except breath,
and the quiet between words.

The Art

Title: ‘The Dream’
Copyright: 2026
Artist: Lee Anne Morgan

They were unlikely.

He burned with words,
poems breathing from ink-stained fingers.
Some words wild, loose.
Some burned through him.
Others stayed.

She was calm.
Aware.
Her heart in the loom—
threads moving beneath her hands,
cloth becoming language

He was half her age.

Daniel arrived in early spring.
By autumn,
they listened.
By winter,
they understood.

After one year,
their rhythms
moved like night into day.

Mornings were tranquil.
Daniel learned to make her tea.
She already knew how to prepare his coffee.
They sat on the veranda, listening—
waves on rocks.

Daniel wrote feverishly.
Isabel hummed while she was at the loom.

One day, Daniel put down his pen.
No longer burning, he lingered over each word,
debated commas with Isabel.

Autumn’s chill arrived.
Daniel chopped and stacked wood.

Isabel wasn’t at her loom one day.
She sat before the hearth, nursing a cold.
Daniel brought her tea.
Here, love, this will help —
his hand brushing hers.
She looked up, eyes questioning.

Seasons passed.
Daniel’s poems grew into several volumes,
hand-lettered,
bound in Isabel’s cloth.

Isabel’s tapestries, woven art:
color, texture—
music in her hands.

Daniel, we need more wood.
He brought wood inside,
with something else.

What have you found?
A stray kitten, barely weaned.
Taking turns night and day,
they tended the kitten.

A bed with soft wool—
constant vigil of warm milk,
first fingers, then a dropper.
The kitten finally opened its eyes—
wide and blue.
Breathing. Soft. Steady.

Issa, what have we gone and done?
Oh, Daniel, she is ours.

Ten years passed before Daniel first baked bread.
He was barefoot (always), in a gray linen shirt,
pants covered in flour.
She wove these for him years ago.

Careful, Isabel, he said, brushing flour from his hands.
You may yet find a poem hidden in this flour.

Isabel smiled, watching him.
She made root vegetable stew,
for Daniel’s bread.

They ate by candlelight.
He noticed her hair wore more silver.

She noticed the plentiful silver at his temples.
A rogue lock fell on his forehead.
She reached for it,
slowly pushing it away.

Do you remember bolting into this room after midnight—
totally bare, wild-haired?

I do! How can I forget my humiliation, Issa?
I woke with an idea for a poem—

Yes, I remember the poem—and more.

For seconds, both smiled.
And knew.

Daniel noticed a slowing in Isabel’s gait.

One mid-winter evening, she fell.
Oh my heart, Issa—
Daniel was there in seconds, holding her head up.
He lifted her onto the bed.
Warm quilts, laid. Water at her side.

After midnight, she called out for him.
Even with quilts, she shuddered,
teeth striking against one another.

Daniel slipped from his bed
into hers.

He gathered her into his arms,
his body curved around her.
She trembled against him, breath shallow.
Hush, Issa. I’m here.

He held her until the shaking slowed.
Until her breathing steadied.
Until sleep took her.

The following spring
the world arrived
to buy her woven works,
to find the reclusive poet
of hand-lettered books.

Thank you. No. We do not sell our work.

Summer arrived,
they walked the clamshell beach.
Daniel matched her slower pace.
He matched his heart to hers long ago.
They sat in a shaded grove of wild jasmine.

Isabel, I brought a poem to read,
if you’d like.

Of course, Daniel.
She noticed his woven linen shirt,
open, billowing in the sea air as he read.

Soft tears fell.
He reached up with his thumbs
gently rubbing them away.
Daniel, it is beautiful.

He smiled with joy,
placed his arm around her—
for he knew.
She leaned into him;
her walk, unsteady.
And the warmth between them could not be named.

Tremor.
Her right hand.
The loom stopped.

Daniel held her hand between his,
until her panic subsided.

It wasn’t long before her sight dimmed.
Isabel never touched the loom again.

Daniel wrote more poems.
He stayed close.

Let’s sit on the veranda, she said.
Without sight, she was tuned to the ocean’s voice,
named each scent drifting through the air.

They sat in the double rocker.

Daniel, it is time.
—No, Isabel, stay a little.

I cannot.

He bowed his head, holding her closer.
—I know.

With her last exhale, Isabel’s eyes closed.
Her head settled on his shoulder.
Her left hand rested over his heart.

Daniel held her, rocking into the night.

About the Art

Title: ‘The Divine Loom No. 1’
Copyright: 2026
Artist: Lee Anne Morgan

Morning skies change.

Sun rises, a clear sky,
blue dome unmarred.
We ready ourselves for busyness.

Clouds enter, with wind-messengers.
Ah—
the dreary cloak suggests a day of nothing,
—be still,
—stop running.

Then, those sunrises,
undecided.
Deep swaths—
myriad colors defy the artist’s palette;
playfulness of color.

Shall we count color?
Yes. Let us try!

So begins the day—
autumnal sky in spring.

The vision makes this soul glad.

Of course, I dream of English garden roses,
warmer days, lighter clothes, sunlight kissing skin.
For now,
still beauty,
wonder—
the dance of clouds,
an ever wheeling sun.

Morning skies change.
Sometimes so do we.

Most days unfold for me,
they ask little.

With no expectations,
I ponder whom I’ll meet—
or not.

A soul met by chance may carry—
mind of Buddha,
heart of Jesus,
joy of Rūmī.

I try to remember:
pay attention to the mercurial morning sky,
how vast the tent,
how fleeting it is.

It?
Yes, my life.

And sometimes
I forget.

About the Art

Title: “One Morning Sky”
Copyright: 2013/Reworked 2026
Artist: Lee Anne Morgan

Have you heard, love?

Soon,
a thousand windows will open.

The first note sung,
heralding renewal.
More notes follow.

Yes, you are still here,
dive deeper, dearest,
you will find you.

Listen!

A chorus of song
mingles—
a woven sound.

Ah—this one moment souls should not miss.

yes, yes, like wildflowers,
this moment will pass.
Wind blows,
petals wither,
we too.

yes, yes, our bodies betray,
our spirits do not, love.

Let us say yes!
To the moment,
to life,
to love.

Then, bravos, bravas for these gifts—
simple, profound.

The first note soars,
one thousand windows open.
In a breathless hush—
eternity.

What more, my friend?

Ah, well,
they say,
deep within is what we seek.

It is also said,
we are only vessels,
housing overwhelming treasure.

And here it is!
The first note,
an exultation—
rebirth on the breath of winds and wings.

Where, you ask?

Anywhere that makes you glad.

About the Art

Title: ‘1000 Windows Open’
Copyright: 2026
Artist: Lee Anne Morgan

About the Music
Through all iterations of this work,
it was Satie’s—

Erik Satie, ‘Once Upon a Time in Paris’
Gymnopedies #1 ~ Gnossiennes #1,3,4,5

Morning clouds hang heavy,
matching the weight of my heart.
Both mournful.
Neither carries light—
not even a dying ember.

I don’t understand why.

All good news.
Medical tests.
No angry words from a neighbor.

Still—

she crossed the threshold,
physically, emotionally,
bringing rage and accusation
into my home, my studio—
sacred to me.

Others called the police.
I did not.

I pray for the pain beneath her rage.
Still,
violent thoughts rise.

Shame visits.
Guilt. Remorse.
Tears.

I am Rumi’s guest house—
without welcome.

This rage
is not the world’s,
not hers.

It is mine.

Anger at myself.
I forgot I was human.
Flawed.
Sometimes beautifully;
sometimes not.

Here is what I know:

This week
I saw naked truths and raged.

Anger passed.
I love the day ahead again.

This heart softens.

What have I written?

nothing
just rough notations
on one cold morning in March

About the Art

Title: ‘A Spectrum of Emotion’
Copyright: 2026
Artist: Lee Anne Morgan

The suitcase sat on the edge of the bed.
Closed.

It was ordinary; not large, nor small.

She slowly unclasped the case.
Just a few things, really.
He was spare in needs—
weathered shoes, soft slippers.

He wore autumn.
Two plaid shirts, one worn cardigan sweater
russet, crimson, amber hues.

She held the sweater close
with scents of cedar, woodsmoke
and the wind before snow.
She folded the sweater with care.

And he stayed until he couldn’t.

Her hands trembled holding his
pen
ink
notebook.

Under a tattered wool scarf
the flute rested.
He carved only six holes
played at midnight.

Everything was packed.
Their gold bands, too.

She paused
took her band
placed it on her finger
kissed his
tucking it into a shirt pocket.

She stared at the band on her finger.
Removing it
she placed it in the pocket next to his.

She closed the suitcase.
Each click, finality.

With weary eyes
she walked down the hallway
nodding to others.

No one responded.
No one noticed pain.

One leaf fell.

Walking a lone road
she lingered in autumn,
winter already in the wind.

Snow casts a veil of gauze over woodlands
flakes so fine
almost unseen

Cold penetrates bones.
Hot tea cools quickly.
Trembling, ice in veins
—salt tears flood.

Pain and sorrow
assume home in bone—
marrow, too.

The monastery bell rings

—Breathing in,
body speech mind
perfect oneness
send this heart along
with the sound of the bell

—Breathing out,
may all hearers awaken
to forgetfulness
transcend the path of
pain, sorrow, and death

Ah—yet, what is
reality
delusion
belief

To whom do we hand pain
delusion shatters
reality stands—
naked before us

Is it contrite to bow
to accept
Or foolish
rejecting all beliefs

Following devoted years
did we locate the Island within
where answers live
where acceptance extends its hand

who knows this truth

Kindness, a grain of sand,
lost
in noise and endless clutter
of reality
of our now

The world sleeps under the veil—
the snowy gauze of dreams

One day we turned from freedom
handed it to madness

now reality
a mecca for some
hell for others

flattery before modesty
avarice before humility
chose this

and this is what we forgot to remember
in the veil of snow dreams

this now is not forever
this is all I know

Photograph (Remastered): ‘The Mistake, Forgiven’
Copyright: 2022/2026
Artist: Lee Anne Morgan

We have lost count of winter storms.
Another arrives—
mere hours away.

Some carry beauty,
others ferocity.

Always, a hush
before the first flakes fall.

Stillness.
Quiet, too.

Is this the moment
when the world breathes together?

Perhaps.
I don’t know.
That is the mystery—
the hush unseen, unknowable,
yet present.

Candles are lit before writing.

I pause to brew another mug of tea.

In those brief moments,
the birds fall silent.
Most shelter at the storm’s peak.
Others brave wind
and the whirling flakes.

Each snowflake—
its own small cosmos.

The scent of snow arrives.
The storm begins.

Yes, we will shovel again.
Perhaps the last storm.

While it blusters outside,
these wild, precious hours remain.

For me—
tea,
playful birdsong,
and waiting for spring.

About the Art

Photograph: ‘Snow in the Forest’
Copyright: 2005
Artist: Lee Anne Morgan

Watercolor: ‘The First Iris’
Copyright: 2025
Artist: Lee Anne & Teacher

It is the way their fingers entwined—
before their hands vowed to one another.

It is the way they looked at each other—
smiles on their faces,
knowing glints in their eyes.

I surmised their story.
I felt their love.
It is rare—
love that is reverent, eternal.

My day started at Urgent Care, then onward to the ER. I didn’t believe anything was serious; nevertheless, I gathered my laptop, phone, and chargers. Glancing at Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet, I tucked it into my carry-all.

An older woman, short and round, sat at the registry. I was next. A tall man, the woman’s age, with a soft European accent, excused himself, tipped his hat before stepping in front of me.

I was settled into an old recliner chair—still operational. No beds available. I fussed with my laptop, but decided to read instead. The sound of laughter—from the patient, doctors, and nurses at the other end of the hallway caught my attention.

The short, round woman was surrounded by hospital staff. I watched but heard little, just laughter. Rilke’s Letters beckoned, so I tuned out to everything. They took the woman’s blood, then mine. And standard drills in ER life unfolded as we waited.

More laughter. These were genuinely happy people. I was wheeled past the couple, and she reached out to touch my arm, smiling, almost chuckling, saying, “It will all be well. God bless you.” I thanked her and nodded to her husband.

The laughter was infectious, for I had fun with two cool tech guys—I’m a veteran C-scan and MRI patient. Paul, the senior tech, gave me the required spiel at the end, stating he couldn’t tell me anything except that my images were wonderful; in fact, they were perfect.

I knew the outcome.

They rolled me past the couple, her head on his shoulder, holding hands again. Calm. Smiling. Peaceful.

Theirs could be a sixty or seventy-year marriage. Trials, sorrows, many celebrations, too. Maybe children, or not. They were devoted. Not clinging, but respect, honor, and joy, not only with one another, but with everyone around them.

She was discharged before me and stopped at my chair, smiling. I smiled. It was impossible not to join the joy. Her husband said, “Rilke! One of my favorites.” Then I placed the accent—German. She was American. I asked if they were both well.

She laughed and told the story of how she broke her nose—oh, so many tests and scans for her brain and eyes. She collided with a door, which was always there. Smiling, she said, “I think this door wanted to get to know me better.”

They asked about me. I am well. Nothing is wrong. The gentleman took my hands and said, “You glow, my dear, you read Rilke, we are all well, is this not a perfect day?”

I heard the hush within me—the hours of waiting dissolved. We laughed again, wishing each other, May God bless you.

They walked away, fingers wrapped, hands clasped. Love, light, joy—walking down an ER hallway.

Oh, don’t leave.
I want to understand—
How do you laugh and rejoice in today’s world?
How have you loved for so long, so deeply?

Certain memories stay.
This is one of them.

I felt touched by angels.

Ah, but I’m a hopeless romantic, so I lean a little that way.

Perhaps more than I allow myself to believe.

Photograph: Lee Anne Morgan
Title: “Persephone’s Tears”
Edition: No. 1/5
Copyright: 2001

There is nothing to report to my friends.
Days are simple, quiet.

Working, I play.

Some days are like this.

It arrives just like weather.

The danger is not only what may happen.
It’s what is already happening inside people.

A steady rehearsal of disappearance.

People move differently now.
Not running.
Not screaming.

Quieter than that.

A mother no longer lets her child answer the door.
A grocery clerk flinches when a uniform enters the store.
A woman double-locks a door even though she has never been harmed.

Hands stay closer to pockets.
Eyes lift, then look away.
Doors close more softly and more often.

It isn’t panic.
It’s contraction.
A narrowing of the inner field.

Something in the body says:
Be smaller.
Be less visible.
Be harder to find.

No one announces it,
but, it arrives just like weather.

And we talk about enemies more than we used to.

—L.A.M.

‘Go Gently’ is a free publication.

Consider clicking the heart or sharing—it all helps. No matter how you subscribe, your presence here means the most.

Thank you for reading—and for staying.

—Lee Anne

In the bleak winter skies, I see light—not enough. Not a healing light. Not yet. My candle burns as I write, bringing hearth warmth to my desk and to the keys I tap.

I slept until 7:30 a.m. I don’t recall when I’ve slept that late. Missing the darkness before dawn shortens my day; daylight leaves about 5 p.m. What is it I believe I’ve lost? Time?

And why does that matter?

Nothing truly dramatic happened—that may be the point.

Today is an ordinary day. Yet there are no ordinary days. Slow, fast, happy, anxious, sorrowful—I am familiar with them all. Surely, this past year has taught me that.

I have work ahead: Write. Image creation. Prep food.

I pause.
I listen.
I feel a profound presence that resists definition, asking nothing but that attention be paid.

I reach for creative clarity, wanting to write about what haunts me—a weaver, a loom. The image persists: a tapestry in motion. My mind swings between the cosmic and the singular. Is humanity woven together into one vast cloth, the heavens shifting as we change?

The sky feels dark—not winter-dark, but a deeper darkness that exists even under blue skies. Light exposes us at our best and worst. These days, we witness the unacceptable.

I am not unaware of what is unfolding in our country, in the world. I cannot bear to take it in endlessly. All I can do is continue to write, to offer a different lens—one that asks us to go gently.

These things call to me now:
Create an image.
Sit with what will not yet be written.

This ordinary day asks nothing heroic of me.

Only that I stay present long enough to pay attention, listen to what has not been said.

‘Go Gently’ is a free publication.

Consider clicking the heart, even sharing—it all helps.
No matter how you subscribe, your presence here means the most.

Thank you for reading, and for staying.

—Lee Anne

Today.

5:30 a.m.—a cherished hour.
Dark, quiet, still.

I listen.

Usual apartment sounds wake to heat turned up.
Radiators grunt. Walls snap—the pipes, I think, I hope!—in irregular rhythms.
The crackle of the fireplace, each pop, Puckish.

A lit candle sits in silence on my desk,
its flame calls to a wanderer.

I tap keys, softened clicks.
Gabriel’s Oboe and The Falls play.
Yo-Yo Ma.
His cello and bow create a sound
not of this world.

Attention must be paid.

Yesterday.

I tried writing the ‘weaver,’ the piece that haunts.
Only an inch forward. Darn.
Wait. Don’t force.
Listen for the release of what wants to be written.

I made vegetable soup instead.
Heavy clunks and scrapes—
a large cast-iron pot lifted onto the stove.

Soft sizzles rose from onions and garlic sauteed in olive oil.
I inhaled the soothing aroma.
The knife chopped myriad vegetables, each its own rhythm,
some clunky, others muted and gentle.
I added them to the onions: celery, squash, zucchini—more.

Stirring the mixture, adding dashes of dill,
filled the apartment with soft, fragrant peace.

a heady bliss

The mixture simmered.
I listened to soft jazz,
and visited a poem I’ve been worrying.

Ah, no success. I put it aside.

Before I placed the jasmine rice in the pot,
the water came to a rapid boil, a small ocean roiling.

I smiled amusement.

The rice coasted into the water like tobogganing downhill—
swoosh.

Yesterday— listening, smelling, tasting—
living an inner rhythm.

Today, again.

The Tibetan bell sounded on the cell phone.
A gentle reminder: reconnect with my body—
breathe with awareness.

And listen.

Soon, ice crystals will hang suspended in the air.

The rush of winds whirl spirals,
sun dazzles—
diamonds dance.

‘Go Gently’ is a free publication.

Consider clicking the heart, even sharing—it all helps.
No matter how you subscribe, your presence here means the most.

Thank you for reading, and for staying.

—Lee Anne

Aromas everywhere.

A worn hallway. Many rooms.

Tony’s tomato sauce simmers.
Lightly breaded eggplant sizzles.
He’ll soon merge the aromatic delight.
An act of care and purpose.
Smiling, he offers a plate—eat!

Dave’s soft, lyrical guitar melody wafts through the door.

Jacquie’s meatballs. Flawless—light, oregano, garlic.
Judy bakes her chocolate cake from scratch.

Doors open.

People devoted to craft, each in their own way.

Later, food arrives in the Community Room for all—
the stranger, too.

Dave brings a casserole of Mac ‘n’ Cheese.

Many eat.
Some don’t.
Some can’t.

But all communicate something unnamed.

Mature people.
Living with purpose.

Offerings—not expected; happily accepted.
This is how they live.
This is what they do.

Home
A folded memory unfurls—an old Franklin cookstove.

She rolled pie crust dough to perfection.
Lemon meringue.
Her granddaughter’s favorite.

The hallway remembers the day’s aromas.

So do I.

The red-tailed hawk circles frozen, snow-laden woodlands.

She glides, ethereal grace—
a bow, tenderly drawn across a cello string—
Benedictus.

Out of morning ice-mist, she lands on the closest branch of the closest tree to the studio window.

In stillness, she offers the final note, the sound of quiet starlight —
haunting peace.

She stared. I stared—
breath hushed.

Timeless time passed.

She soared high to the Unseen, leaving only echoes on the branch.
Free.

With no tether to time, she—
flies,
rests,
composes her music.

The hawk is knowing.
She is enough.

Can I hear the slow bow across the cello strings?
Ah, yes, the Unseen asks more of us.

—L.A.M.

notes-

If you’d like to hear what I heard, here is “Benedictus.”