Of Verse, Poesy & Odes

  Grandma’s hands are almost never still.   They’re usually guiding a needle through a hem, repairing a worn sock, or knitting something war...

  The parlor smells of lemon polish this morning, the light gentle.  Mama smooths my dress, settles the great white bow onto my curls, and g...

Morning light softened the old farmhouse standing warm and quiet in the distance as if holding its breath.  Grandma had sent her outside, “Y...

  Venice 1929 The gondola's ferro marks him, he with his Panama hat, leans forward, attentive, cigarette almost forgotten raised eyebrow...

Click on image to enlarge  Bessie started life as a simple milk cow, but somehow became more like a dog or the pony I never had.   It began ...