The dead, brown branches overhanging the fern garden were offensive to me—a blight distracting my vision of the woods beyond. Vowing to clear away this rude intrusion, I bushwhacked the twenty feet or so to the offender. I found it was part of a clump of three, two- to four-inch diameter, better-than-saplings. The group had light gray, craggy bark and long, branch whips of compound, saw-toothed leaves. The dead branches were too high for me to reach with the loppers. The bow saw was too big and the angle too wrong to make more than a halfway cut. I went for the axe. After an inordinate amount of swinging and impact, the tough four-incher came down. I nipped off a foot and a half twig and went upstairs for The Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Trees.

It wasn’t a lot of things–that little tree and its fellow clumpers. I had a hard time believing what the book said it was: an American elm. I double checked with another source, which agreed. I looked it up on line for good measure. Yup. American elm.

My father was very fond of trees. He used to talk about our fair hometown city of Troy, north of Dayton, in southwestern Ohio. He told me there were days in the early 20th century when the main streets were graced with American elm, all lost to the Dutch elm disease. “When that elm in our back yard is gone,” he said, “we’ll sell the house.” I was seventeen years old when that came to pass in 1967.

Finding the dying elm here was sad on a number of levels. This is the third of a breed of doomed trees that I have in my woods. One of the others, now nothing but a tall, dead stick, was an American chestnut.  The third is the white ash, under threat from the emerald ash borer.  All of these great trees are vulnerable to small beetles.  

I thought the American elm had gone the same route as American chestnut. Great swaths of our landscape, rural and other, were decimated by the loss of huge tracts of graceful elm and sturdy chestnut. Dutch elm disease destroyed seventy-five percent of American elms from the 1950s to 1989. Without the Dutch elm disease, many of these trees would have survived for three hundred years.

I look at my woods as a microcosm of the planet. Heavily logged years before we moved here, the land is a crowded tangle of third or fourth growth, which, one tree expert told me, was a prescription for contact spread of contamination–ash to ash, chestnut to chestnut, elm to elm.

I would point out, however, that one graceful presentation of American elms have been rescued and preserved: those on the National Mall in Washington, DC. ( USA TODAY Smolinski, Paulina, August 19, 2019)  Over the years, the National Park Service tree crews have worked pruning, sanitizing and injecting the elms in an aggressive battle with the local vector: Scolytus multistriatus, the smaller European elm bark beetle. From the first appearance of the disease in the 1950s to the 1970s, the fight has gone on. Seventy years later, the elms still stand.

Now, isn’t that interesting!





2019 Anne LaBa Writers' Weekend

Last summer (2019) at Great Camp Sagamore in the Central Adirondacks, seventeen women gathered for the second year for the Anne LaBastille Women’s Writers Weekend. We gathered in the Playhouse and stood in Tad Asana (Mountain Pose) feeling individually what it was like, perhaps, to be a mountain. It was then suggested that together we could be considered a mountain range–collectively an image of unity, uniquely composed and very powerful.

Now, because of the pandemic, we are in relative solitude, relatively far from one another, and far from the unique place that is Great Camp Sagamore. Since March, we have been in a fearful state of mind and soul, those of us who were once a range of mountains, because of a tiny virus that not anyone, not the greatest minds in science, completely understands, and that has killed over a hundred thousand citizens of the US and infected over two million.

We are hardy women writers. You would think that as such, we would be thrilled to be in isolation, able to wipe a calendar clean of appointments and responsibilities and get down to finishing that collection of poetry or that novel. I, for one, find it jarring to be interrupted by the phone and internet. I have organized and reorganized my office, my forty years worth of journals, and one file twenty years thick with letters to and from my college roommate. I have appreciated that solitude and the chance to do my work, but I have also had all the time, like a mountain, to be very still, very within. I have also been still, hoping to be passed over, like a frog when the heron is nearby,

Governor Andrew Cuomo described the last 100 plus days in New York State as climbing a mountain. Everyday he displayed graphs to show how the slope up was so steep. In fact, he compared the mountain of infection rates, hospitalizations and deaths as “Mount Everest” and a few days later brought it closer to home describing the mountain as Mount Marcy, tallest mountain in New York State. The State of New York is seeing its lowest levels of infections and hospitalizations—the lowest in all the United States. New Yorkers followed the protocols and kept each other safe—wearing masks, washing hands, keeping a safe distance from others.

There is still great danger from the virus and that will likely continue until there’s a vaccine. One year from now, will we be able to form another mountain range at Sagamore? We all will have changed. Ice storms, rains and winds alter the surface of the mountains but do not change the core, the structure we hold to: each other.

For more opportunities to write in the Adirondacks or on-line, contact the Adirondack Center for Writing  This organization and the Anne LaBastille Foundation  supported this program at Great Camp Sagamore. Do support these wonderful organizations!


Out in paperback and hardback, published by Ra Press:

LIVES LIVED, LESSONS LEARNED: Essays from the Adirondacks 

With:  Mary Sanders Shartle, Charles Watts, McClain Moredock, Mary Anne Johnson, Doug Deneen, Nathalie Thill, Chuck Gibson, and Sandra Weber

“A collection of essays from eight writers who have close links to the Adirondack Park. Through epiphany, history, memory and oftentimes humor, these skilled authors reveal to the reader their love for this place of forests and ponds, mountains and rivers, hardscrabble villages and tough country folk, ingredients all adding up to a world of surreal adventure and unforgettable life experience.”

Available from Lulu



Lamentation for 2019

It’s raining and sleeting today, so I’m not going to the Y.  I’m sitting in something called a “Chill Sack”. It’s a Thing. Amazon carries them; mine’s deep purple. My legs are stretched out on a needle-pointed ottoman (needle-pointed by me many years ago and made into an ottoman by my mother), and my one remaining cat sleeping on my legs. 

The view from the chill sack is the gray roof of the garage and beyond are the frozen gray woods. Today is an ugly gray day, but I am cozy with my cat. 

This is looking like the annual post. Last year I wrote about the messy tree and the bishop. The bish is still with us, alas. The tree is present again this year and is messier with a couple of long strands of CVS receipts and, for a touch of elegance, a friend’s black silk bow tie that was once worn to the Breakers in Newport, Rhode Island.

I’m not sure I want to add the ashes of my dead cat to this year’s messy tree. That seems a yard too far.

Lest you think I’ve gone completely round the bend. let me reassure you that I likely have. It’s been a rough year. My female cat, Wink, the one-eyed wonder, died of renal failure at age thirteen last March. It was not a good or easy death and ended with the long, inevitable drive to the vet, where she was finally released from suffering. I hope someone is as kind to me.

My new novel-in-progress is dedicated to Wink, since both she and my male cat, Clooney (he’s handsome), have now seen me through two novels. The new novel, Elephant, still has a way to go before any official submission, but we are seeing a dim light at the end of the tunnel. It’s five years and seven revisions in and probably a few more drafts to go before it feels presentable. The cats were focal in keeping me focused. To lose one is much more than missing the furry lump of purr to my right hand, when I get stuck on a concept or character.

I am not unused to cats dying–people, either–and the burying of their bodies or spreading of their respective ashes. I really do try not to anthropomorphize my pets or cast them as angels in some sort of afterlife. Regarding Wink, however, I cannot see fit to release her. Her ashes have been on my desk since spring in a little container with her picture on it and the words of Lamentations put to music by Pablo Casals in a lovely choral piece. I don’t need those words any more. I have finished most of the sorrow bit of grieving. But on this gray, rainy, sleety day, at the end of this year, troubled on so many levels globally and nationally, I thought that I should put those sounds of lamentation out there for all of us in hopes of mourning, of purging in preparation for something brighter for 2020: DO listen to this lovely thing. 

O Vos Omnes by Pablo Casals (1876-1973), Lamentations 1:12,

King’s College, Cambridge

Advent Lessons: Messy Trees and a Bishop named “Love”

The Advent season is upon us. This year it feels like a circus elephant has wandered into our already congested household. The circus elephant is in the form of a tree–a ten-foot Frasier fir. Even in our high-roofed living room, it is a formidable intrusion. Furniture is moved to accommodate the tree.

The tree upstages everything and everyone. It needs lots of water. It takes two or more people to attach the unusual ornaments. There is the annual debate about what belongs on the tree and how the ornaments should be more . . . well . . . ornamental. This tree is the complete opposite of what droves of people witness at the downtown civic center’s Festival of Trees. Our tree is not a sparkly, be-ribboned, flashy, shooby-dooby tree. Our tree is a messy, hilarious, creepy, emotional tree. It’s an exploded scrapbook of events, people, testimonies, failures, births and deaths going back nearly fifty years! From a child’s lost binky, to a teenage girl’s underwire, to objects like a mouse-chewed electrical cable found during our renovation, a rock from a creek near where my grandfather was born, our five-year pins from a corporation which we gratefully left behind in New York City, badges from trips to Grand Canyon and the Cincinnati Zoo, swizzle sticks, name tags from conferences, business cards. You get the picture, right? Messy. It gets harder and harder to do every year. It’s just a physical and spiritual struggle.

In the midst of all the annual tree-passion, we took time to go to Bethesda Episcopal Church in Saratoga Springs for the annual Evensong of Advent Lessons and Carols. Usually these events are unevenly attended. The challenge is to have more people in the congregation than in the choir. This year for Advent, Dean Vang, our interim priest, invited two other clergymen to be lesson readers: one was the Baptist pastor from the church up the street; the other was a Roman Catholic priest from the church farther downtown. Because of this outreach, our old historic church was crowded with people. The church was packed!

The choir outdid itself. This elegant show of Anglicanism in a purt-near 200-year old structure, doesn’t often meet with such enthusiasm from anyone else in town. And after, as always, there was a lovely high tea with sherry and warm spiced cider and delectable sweets. It all seems to be a bit anachronistic on the surface.

Intermingled with the crowd was a parishioner whose beloved dog died recently and had brought his new puppy to show. Also present was a former denizen of the streets, who, after years of wandering, has found a job, an apartment, good advice and assistance from our parish. There is in our church a woman with no hands in a wheelchair, another who is given to frequent outbursts until the music starts; then she stares agape, enrapt. The church is an exploded scrapbook of diversity, unity, inclusiveness, and it’s very messy and ailing. There are fewer and fewer young families and young children. There used to be a treble choir and an active junior youth group. There isn’t any longer. We barely have a Sunday school. We cling to and embrace everyone. Especially, against all odds, a devoted and enthusiastic group of LGBTQ members.

This is notable because our bishop of the Albany diocese wishes that particular group would just become magically neutered. He is the last Episcopalian bishop in the United States to stand against the sacrament of marriage for same-gender couples. This is in spite of a recent ruling by the convention of American Episcopal churches to allow such unions in parishes that believe that all persons are worthy and welcome to marry, even if their bishop does not agree. We would like to be one of those churches. But Bishop William Love stands firm in Leviticus and St. Paul against same-gender love and sexuality. He forbids such marriages or blessings in any church in this large upstate New York diocese.

I believe a bishop, of all people, should never deny any sacrament to anyone.

Our parish has not accepted this quietly. We are searching for a new rector, but very few priests (count ‘em: only three have applied) want to serve under Bishop William Love. The Presiding Bishop of the American church, Michael Curry, who spoke so forcefully of love at the royal marriage in England this year, has intervened. Soon there will be some kind of decision made. We hope. What will be done about or with Bishop William Love. Will he resign? Will he refuse to budge? Will he bear down on his interpretation of the Bible with an iron clad devotion to a lost cause?

The church household is equally messy to our own home. The tree is just a portion of all of that. So it’s Advent. We await the revelation.


A five-year project, finally finished and in hand. Local authors including parishioners, professionals and Saratogians.

It’s an elegant, hard-bound, better-than-coffee table project with beautiful photographs, great writing and a true sense of community spirit.

More information on the click-on above.

Thanks for your continued interest in Writing Quietly, Reading Aloud!

Now back to fiction and poetry.

Reading Poems to Children at a Farmer’s Market

Image may contain: 1 person, smiling, outdoor


The farmer’s market at Brant Lake (Clark’s Country Mall) is an outdoor market that does a brisk business on Saturdays from 10 a.m. – 3 p.m. on Route 8 in the Adirondacks. The big draw in August is the sweet corn, peaches and pies. I sit at a table at one end, “Meet the Author” banner behind me. People pull in with bikes, kayaks, cars and trucks and aim for the produce. It’s difficult to draw customers to fiction or poetry, away from the bounty of Buhrmaster Farms.

So I’ve taken to calling out to folks as they pass by with their pies and peaches “You want literature with that?” More often than not, the response is “No thanks, I’m good.”

With kids, especially younger ones, I ask if they would like me to read them a poem. I feel a little like the Old Dope Peddler or worse. “Hey kiddie. Want some of this?” You have to be careful luring young children in with small samples of poetry. What if they get hooked?

Often one or two get enticed. I read a short poem and if I’m lucky I get “I liked it!” (as if surprised). “Awesome!” one said. “Did you write that?” which indicates a level of curiosity beyond the words—a sort of incredulity that:

1) this is poetry and it doesn’t bite.

2) in their sketchy education they have previously been exposed to poetry that sucks  and they now hear angel harps.

3) they experience complete awe that this adult does this, like it’s an occupation or something, making money selling words at a farmer’s market way the hell up in the Adirondacks.

If successful, the Old-Dope-Peddler approach brings in the parent(s) as well. Sometimes they are so enchanted by their kid’s enchantment they will spend $10-15 on a book or two of poetry, and I make gas money and something to put in the Three Poets Old Age Fund.

One child, six or seven years of age, was very suspicious, as all children should be of an adult offering them poetry. She looked both wistful and mistrusting and sidled closer to the food where the parents were shopping. They seemed unconcerned or distracted. Fingers in her mouth, the little girl listened to the poem, eyes shining and only occasionally darting to the left to check in with Mom and Dad. It was as if she was worried they might think she was engaging in risky behavior, but they were oblivious to all but Mrs. Smith’s pies.

That particular poem, “Silver Bay Lullaby” by Elaine Handley, from a chapbook of ours called “Notes from the Fire Tower” has sold more poetry than fiction at this Farmer’s Market as well as at other book fairs depending on the crowd and number of young children whom I can entice into the sticky, drug-addled web of poetry dependency.

In this American idiom, the local Farmer’s Market, I have engaged with visitors from way out West, a woman wearing an “I Miss Obama” tee shirt, a man in a “Make America Great Again” red cap and four lovely and excited immigrant teenage girls wearing head scarves. Our conversations have covered more weather than the current political climate. But of all those who visit my market table burdened with fiction and poetry, I have most engaged with children. I have learned hope from them as they listen to simple lines. They hear a language richer and deeper and more colorful than what they hear in normal conversation. They are mystically blissful, and so am I.

“Silver Bay Lullaby” by Elaine Handley

The mountains cradle

the last morning mist between them

like parents who’ve brought the baby to bed.

White breath, white silence, expectation.

They are poets who spend the day singing

jade, amethyst, emerald, cobalt

and hush the lake to silver dusk,

and hush the lake to silver dusk.

from “Notes from the Fire Tower” Three Poets on the Adirondacks.




One only understands the things that one tames,” said the fox. “Men have no more time to understand anything. They buy things all readymade at the shops. But there is no shop anywhere where one can buy friendship, and so men have no friends any more. If you want a friend, tame me…”

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Le Petit Prince


The chipmunk was Hoovering the site where the tent and buffet table had been just days before for my daughter’s wedding five years ago.  The chipmunk followed a random forage pattern that encompassed the tent site, the back garden with its bird feeders where cast-off seed and cracked corn could be found, then around the side of the house to where he/she/it was nesting in the rock garden under the Buddha head out front.  Wherever I sat in the ensuing days, I would watch he/she/it/they making the rounds and often passing quite close to me or my feet, pausing only to sit up on hinders, sniff at me, look around, then dash off again.  

I brought out a handful of shelled raw peanuts from the bird store and put them in a dish in the approximate pathway the chipmunk tended to take. He/she/it/they caught the scent and gradually tracked down the peanuts, stuffed cheeks full and ran off in the direction of the rock garden, unloaded and returned. In the meantime, I had moved the dish slightly closer to my foot, then closer, then closer with a peanut on my shoe, then one on my knee, then in my hand. Over  a couple of days, the chipmunk, now recognizable as a single entity with a significantly torn left ear and a scraggly tale, emboldened by the smell of peanuts, became a regular visitor in my lap and in my hand. As long as I held still, he/she/it was content to graze until the pouchy cheeks were full.

A routine began, usually around tea time, I sat on the deck with peanuts, book, tea, and soon the chipmunk would appear. The cats would watch intently from the windows, as the chipmunk rambled over the Adirondack chair, table, books or magazines and me in search of the peanuts. In the cats’ horrified opinion, I had gone to over to the Dark Side.

This went on for about a week or two.  My new son-in-law also became a part of the event one day.  My stolid husband witnessed this, and said he was moved. The only warning from people I knew was that chipmunks are really pests and will eat your cherry tomatoes and burrow in your garden. I’m not much of a gardener, and I’m not fond of tomatoes, at least not raw. Perhaps, fed enough peanuts, the chipmunks would not attack the cherry tomatoes. As far as I was concerned, I could share my garden. I was the interloper in their territory after all. I was a refugee from the city to the woods. I was beholden to their acceptance.

The Mayflower movie theater in downtown Troy, Ohio was the beginning of my affliction about animals. I often refer to myself as a “Disney Cripple.” Snow White, Bambi or Cinderella were all part of my early passions. There were animals—bluebirds singing, rabbits lisping and thumping, motherless deer, smiling raccoons and squirrels—the whole panoply of woodland creatures not to mention house cats, dogs and mice capable of bursting into song at 78 rpm. (They even sewed things!) In a somewhat confusing childhood, Disney cartoons with their very cute but unrealistic looking animals were like a promise of happy endings when all looked dark. That was the beginning of the downfall of my critical thinking, and my immersion in fantasy. It has led to me talking to bugs, birds, cats and now chipmunks.

This has been going on for five years now. The chipmunks have changed or rotated in dominance, but usually there is only one. The one who has engaged me this summer and some of last summer, too, has a distinctive mark on his right flank. One of our granddaughters got in on the act this year and named this particular one “Myrtle” because he lives in the myrtle bed off the back deck. I suggested that, since being a male, “Myrt” might be more appropriate. Sometimes there is a female who comes from the same area of the myrtle bed, likely Myrt’s mate. Actually, I would rather not name them. It is enough that over the years they have been driven by harsh instinct, overriding their fear of humans enough to fill their underground larders with peanuts; enough to let an interloper who is kind enough to offer a bottomless supply of raw peanuts and keep the cats inside. They enthrall me in a everlasting childhood delusion of fantastic connection to the real denizens of these woods, as if they are in fact, my friends.  




yellow cast

The car accident was almost six weeks ago–tri-malleolar fracture (ankle). I had surgery the same day. I now officially have as much hardware in me as Ace has in a store. I try telling myself it makes me more valuable.

That doesn’t really help at all. Neither did the zen approach of appreciating the remarkably long, foreseeable future with nothing but time on my hands and me off my restless feet. The yellow cast was a nod to an iffy  springtime in the foothills of the Adirondacks. As is always with life in the North Country, one never knows, do one?

Here’s what did help: Good friends who made soups, Irish stews, chili; who came to visit and talk, sent gorgeous flowers, who threw the St. Patrick’s Day party here, so I could attend,  and cleaned up afterwards. A husband who brought me meals in bed for the first week or two, cleaned the cat litter, shopped for groceries, learned how to poach an egg, and spotted me while I scooted upstairs on my rear end to get to my office. My daughter who did our laundry, also cooked and cheered me up. But for most of the first three to four weeks I was stuck in bed or in the living room with this brilliant yellow cast elevated on one or two blue bolster pillows. Not really painful, but no damn fun.

My friend, Bev, brought me Ruth Reichl‘s book My Kitchen Year–part memoir, part recipe collection. Reichl mentions breaking her foot very badly on a book tour and being laid up for an unconscionable amount of time (more than me), and discovering a knee scooter could get her back on her one good foot and into the kitchen again. The next week I rented such a gizmo and found my mobility and the ability to use two hands improved my life.


(Photo by Elaine Handley)

So instead of a poem this time, here’s a recipe that I was able, gratis a Ruth Reichl and the knee scooter or knee walker, to prepare for Easter Day. It’s my recipe, not Ruth’s. Since my son-in-law prefers protein over straight vegetarian meals, it’s a combination of primavera recipes I’ve made in the past and the addition of carbonara ingredients. Ruth Reichl DOES have, by the way, a wonderful spaghetti carbonara recipe in her book Garlic and Sapphires, which is one of my favorites of hers (both the book and the recipe).

Fettucine Primavera Shartelli

1-2 pkgs. fettucine (1 pkg for 4 people with leftovers, 2 pkgs for more than 6 with leftovers)

2 pkgs. chopped pancetta

2 T extra virgin olive oil and 1 T butter

1 carrot peeled and chopped

1 – 2 leeks (smallish) cleaned and chopped

1 bunch asparagus, woody ends trimmed or snapped off or peeled, remainder chopped (can be blanched as well, but not necessary)

A handful of sun-dried tomatoes sliced into thin strips

1/2 c. frozen peas (fresh peas are good, too)

4 whole eggs at room temp., blended with 1 cup heavy cream or half and half. (This is good with two packages of fettucine but will make a really creamy 1 pkg.)

Lots (at least a 1/2 c. or more) of good parmigiano-reggiano with some for additional topping as well

Fresh ground black pepper

A double handful of fresh basil chopped.

Start the salted water boiling for the pasta. In a large Dutch oven or iron skillet, fry up the pancetta until crispy. Remove the bits to a paper towel to drain, and keep warm. In the same pot/skillet, add oil and butter and the carrots and saute for 3 minutes. Then add the leeks and the asparagus. Saute veggies together but leave them a bit crispy to the bite.  The pasta water should come to a full boil. Add the pasta and cook until al dente. Drain but reserve 1/2 cup of pasta water to add to the sauteed veggies. Add the peas and sun-dried tomatoes. Bring to a boil and shut off the heat. Quickly add the beaten eggs and cream and stir into the veggies. Add the hot drained fettucine and the parmigiano-reggiano and a grind or two of black pepper.  Mix all together. Top with the crispy pancetta and basil and serve with a good bottle of wine – white or red. On Easter we had 19 Crimes and also Cristallino Brut, and it was lovely. My daughter made a spinach salad with sliced fresh strawberries and goat cheese with a slightly sweet sesame seed and oil dressing.

HAPPY SPRING! (and it will be when this damn cast comes off.)

The Writing Life, and other madness…

I don’t write for this website much.  I plead several knee surgeries in the last few years. Recuperation from surgery is taxing. Mentally it’s just exhausting. I’m about fourteen weeks out of the last knee replacement and have just begun to turn a corner in the last few weeks. I discovered Reiki helps. Who knew?

Enough of the organ recital. Thankfully, my surgeon informs me I’ve run out of knees to operate on. And thank you, I’m feeling and walking much better now.

Also, just to keep the idly curious informed, I’ve been working on a massive project with about fifteen other writers to create a history book on Bethesda Episcopal Church in Saratoga Springs, NY, a significantly lush Gilded Age building designed by Richard Upjohn, the architect for Trinity Church in Wall Street. With so many authors, it’s been a massive undertaking, but the end is in sight. For a home-spun effort representing both professionals, academics and a doughty bunch of parishioners, it has been a hugely rewarding effort and fascinating research. But perhaps I should wait ‘til I can actually hold a copy in my hand. At least now, after three years, that seems possible.

People who know me, and especially fans of The Truth and Legend of Lily Martindale, keep asking me when the next book is coming out. Aside from the vast church history and two older fiction manuscripts of mine which need to find a publisher or agent, I have two other projects underway. One is about an elephant, a stuffed one, in the Adirondacks (obviously fiction). The other (also fiction) is about a woman in a witness protection program in Saratoga Springs who becomes interested in the history of the house where she’s kept under guard. I’m flying blind on both.

There’s a great poem from Jay Rogoff’s poetry collection How We Came to Stand on This Shore (River City Publishing, 2003) called “Driving in Fog” which aptly describes so much of what I feel when I write. He says “The road emerges out of nowhere/all ten yards of it—and runs straight nowhere,/the white lines stuttering. . .”

Like many of us, I write, or try to write, every day on whatever project comes to hand whether it’s my journal or a serious project like the church history or my own fiction. Poetry has not risen to the surface since The Three Poets did a reading last fall at the Saratoga Springs Public Library. Here’s a poem I read that night that is an apt sense of how I’ve been feeling about poetry and the writing life:


The Poet is found dead, road

kill it appears, her stockings

laddered out to here, up to there.


A great violence done, not all

by vehicle. She had not shaved

in some time.


Her bra, of cheap manufacture,

was so worn in places

the wires and padding poked through.


Her underwear—likely bought in bulk—

stained and over worn

in the posterior.


She carried to the last

an old leather briefcase, heavy

with books and papers.


The impact had split the seams,

sent pages and pages

out upon the wind.


No one could say if she’d been

known, published.

Those men and women


who attended the body

cannot be said to be interested

in the flying papers.


No one seemed inclined to

gather to her the pages that strayed

into the neighboring corn field


which, had she lived, she would note

the way the stubble, broken, bent and tattered

still gave sustenance to the crows.


How the crows were set off against

the darkening sky

the dusting of snow.

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