Sunday, May 23, 2010


Mom used to have a photo of our dog, Butch, in a little dress, a crocheted sweater and bonnet. He would get up and dance on his back legs. He was a very hairy tiny Ginger Rogers impersonator. He tapped his toe nails across the floor and twirled. Then we would applaud and beg for more. He'd get excited and try to sing. When we laughed he'd get mad and start barking. Sometimes our ridicule drove him from the stage and he'd run away in his dear little dress. We'd have to chase him down the street. He was a fun friend. Like many small dogs he was fearless. He never believed he could be killed by a car... but he was. Butch died there on 24th St. in Mpls.
He used to play "Tag" too. He always wanted to be "it". He broke the rules! He didn't tag us when he caught us. No, he nipped us with his sharp little teeth. Then it was his turn to laugh and our turn to yowl and howl. One time I got lucky and ran to a tree. I caught a low branch and hung just an inch or two above his nipping jaws. Then he sat down to wait for me to fall. He could wait forever but soon I was tired. I dropped from the tree like an over ripe plum and he had me! Yipes!
As I sit here thinking and looking out the Loftnest window I recall a line from a song Pat Boone used to sing. "I read your book by colored light that came in through the pretty picture window." I have colored glass in the window and beyond the pane the bright leaves of spring flutter their green fingers toward me. I already love this window full of sky and tree tops. The tree before me is a short-lived box elder and already old. I hope it can endure a few more years with me. The birds of forever sit in the branches and look in on my finite humanity.
On Sunday, May 23, 1982, Mae Sarton wrote in the journal of her 70th year, too. "I suppose I have always believed that one must live as though one were dying... and we all are, of course... because then the priorities become clear."
Now let me invite you to "Walk with a Poem" by Anne M Dunn.
Today I will walk with a poem.
Standing close we will commune
And conceive a bundle of words.
I will carry the poem
Until it ripens.
It will burst open upon the page.
The tiny spark will add itself
To the great blaze of poems
Being birthed around the world.
Poets will nurture new creations.
They will grow strong together
And stumble into the public arena.
They will present themselves
For ridicule or praise.
Perhaps among the sour fruit
Will be one perfect rose.
We will carry the flower home,
Tear the petals free,
Lay them on our tongues
Like a holy sacrament
And feed ourselves
To write again.


  1. I love your poem. How do you do that? I'm hearing it with much more than just my mind. Thank you.

  2. If I knew of a publication that wants poems about poems I would sell it.