Thursday, January 20, 2011
we set out at noon
when the sun was high and warm,
Maisie, Tunisia and I.
Harold had cleared the pond.
We heard the scrape of his shovel
up to the house. Mama
bottled hot chocolate as we
gathered our mittens and
sharpened our skates.
It was our last winter together, we three cousins.
Maisie soon married a man from Alberta, Canada
where she proceeded to have twelve children
and five dogs.
Tunisia contracted tuberculosis,
was sent to a sanatorium,
and never returned.
And I, I took my camera,
the one Harold used that day
to capture us,
and moved to New York City.
You will not have heard of me
though I did well in my time,
the little camera a heart beating
in my hands,
my eye, awkward at first but later
sharp and witty.
As good as Imogen Cunningham I was,
Photo courtesy of Willow. Read more poems and stories based on this photo prompt here.
Brush laden with Titanium white,
the master pointillist in the sky
One snow drop after another
kisses the earthen canvas,
until the path is buried,
the branches bowed.
Winter birds huddle in the cedar.
On the porch, the old bell
chimes in the wind,
a slow, somber tone,
dong, dong, dong, dong.
caps the tube of paint, scrapes the
pallet, cleans her brush
in the swift immortal stream,
satisfied and complete.
an exercise to use these four words: bell, kisses, immortal, branches. Otherwise I would not have used the word "immortal" which was a difficult one. Too heavy.