The Thiry-Second Poem

 Russian friends. Poem 32. 

The Thirty-second poem November 6, 2022

The seasons pass away. Now

we change time., back to Standard.

Getting an extra hour. Overall I’m

doing well. But sometimes sleep

eludes me. I sit up reading or

writing. Then sleep takes me by

surprise. I have all these books.

What should I do with them.

Other writers might cherish them.

I/m saving out the ones I love.

My students want me to keep

teaching. I will as long as I can.

I’m still paying my bills and making

dinner. I write new poems Sometimes

words fail me, but sometimes they

come back. My son says I’m a

caring person. He teases me a lot,

But there’s the truth of my life.

I care..

The Thirtieth Poem

 Alyosha, Aleksei, Ksenia, and behind them Nadya--at Dacha in summer

The Thirtieth Poem October 30, 2022

We met together, my children and my 

younger brother, and his wife.  All of

us getting older and maybe wiser. I’d

made lasagna. It came out a little soupy,

but no one complained. We told stories.

Some we smiledd to hear. Some we did

not. We left as friends. They were soon

heading home, eager to be far away again,

far north of us. We may never see them

again, now that we’re rooted here, so far

south. I wanted to know their feelings.

Some I could read; some I couldn’t.

Those birth ties. Not easy to re-open,

to explain. Or even to accept. Yet I’m

glad we met and took the risk. I sent

them my best book of poems, and he

thanked me. I can only guess what he’ll

think. Will they open their eyes? Will

they read to the depth?

The Thirtieth Poem

 Judy, left, my mother, and my sister Margie, Christmas 1943.

The Thirtieth Poem October 23, 2022

This is the day my younger brother 

and his wife come to visit. They live

far to the north and are coming South.

I have no idea what that will be like

for them. Or for me. Hopefully we’ll

be friendly, but who can tell? They

haven’t said much for many years.

Twenty maybe? More? I’m going

to make lasagna, a kind of celebration.

Here I live, surrounded by books.

Some I’ve written, many I’ve cherished.

Everywhere I look, I see pictures,

paintings and books. My Russian

painter friends gave me their art

and their affection. Now their war

holds them captive. The photos,

mostly of children, when younger,

I cherish. Every now and then I

find one I’d forgotten about and

give it a place of honor. It looks

happy there. I have many good

memories. Outside, as the sky

lightens, I hear the peacocks. My

son is still sleeping, but they’ve

come over for the chicken feed

he throws for the birds. The peacocks

come faithfully. They keep watch

from our roof. I hear them honking

to Tim: “Time to get up. We’re

hungry.”

The Twenty-Ninth Poem

 Russian hay field, and Vera by the Volga River.

The Twenty-Ninth Poem October 16, 2022

Sometimes I lose things when

I hid them for safe keeping.

It’s part of the way my life

is now. Full of surprises.

I thought I was turning off

the oven, but I had turned

it to broil. And four loaves

got scorched black. I was

the one who scraped off the

burn. The bread itself tasted

fine. I also signed up for

something evil. Too naive

I guess. I had to backtrack

and learn how to get loose.

I don’t like it when they

scold me as if I were a

careless child. I can see

their point of view, but it

still hurts when they try to

teach me what I already

know. The bread is okay

now, and I’m okay. “Live

and learn” still works. I do.

The Twenty-sixth and Twenty-Eighth poems

         Kxenia and Vera daughter and mother in Kostroma, Russia

The Twenty-sixth Poem October 2, 2022

A sestina

Twenty-three years I’ve lived in this house.

A lot has changed, including the music.

The next door peacocks appear once it’s light.

The rooster crows even in the dark.

Do I hear the stern command of Mrs. Peacock?

Ushering out an inquisitive duck?

The first explorer was a lonely duck.

Most of the time I stay in the house.

But I tune my ears to hear the mother peacock

I’m often up while it’s still dark.

Soon enough I’m blessed with light.

It seems as if the peacock brings music.

Since my teen years I’ve loved music.

I never expected a mother duck

or a beautiful, triumphant peacock.

This changed the mood in the whole house.

Even so I can’t say I mind the dark.

And soon enough I’m blessed with light.

My son sees them when he goes into the dark.

He wakes the hens, brings on the duck.

He casts out chicken feed, and there’s the peacock.

Suddenly in no time there’s the light.

I strain my ears to hear the music.

And try to imagine what’s happening outside the house.

I tell all my friends who come to the house

especially about the peacock.

I’ve come to enjoy getting up in the dark.

I wonder who will come next. Another duck?

Or maybe the cardinals with their cheerful music?

I’m always surprised by the reappearance of the light.

As I lie dying, I hope there will be music.

Hopefully it will praise both the light and the dark.

Inside and outside the house.

One can only wish to let go of light

with the blessing of a peacock.

And I have love, too, for the mother duck.

Now I’m quite alive in both the light and dark.

I welcome the music of the duck.

But my favorite bird outside the house is the peacock.

The Twenty-eighth Poem October 9, 2022

There are people who try to trick you

and they do. They’re very persuasive.

But not legal. They set traps and soon

you say “yes.” to your own harm.

Then you realize they’ve trapped you.

How will you free yourself? And

get your life back to normal?

You’ll have to be clever, too, to get

their chains off and free your

hands and fest. That’s work,

or course. And you yourself aren’t as

helpless as you feel. They’re the ones

who are illegal. You have everything

on your side. Trust your strength

and canniness. Of course you will win.

The Twenty-Seventh Poem

 Belikh family, with daughters Lyuba and Vera, and granddaughters at dacha in summer

The Twenty-Sixth Poem October 2, 2022

Day after day the same view,

books nearby, most unsorted,

I sit in my office chair where I

 eat and write, where I keep

things I like to look at: my

teacup, the old honey jar, and

the new one, my two medicine

bottles, my red and green placemat, 

and napkin, a water bottle, a 

small flashlight, to help me read,

a small plant with yellow flowers, 

salt and pepper shakers, a roll 

of paper towels, two candles, two 

photos, both of myself, at age one 

and a half. In one held by my father, 

my mother smiling. In the other,

alone in my borrowed crib–

alone and surprised: Who are

you? I seem to be asking.

a black duck’s feather, At

midnight black dark outside,

my peacock cup and toast

plate, the books I’m teaching,

heavy book boxes, and on them

the seeds that never got planted.

But we did have tomatoes.

I made spaghetti sauce four

times, safely stored in the freezer,

books on top, bread flours within. 

Despite my illness, I flourish.

Judy's Sapphics (the Twenty-sixth Poem)

 Aleksei Belikh during golden fall in Kostroma, Russia

Judy’s Saphics

I look at the photo of me with 

my parents–I was a toddler--

and my parents, so young

 and very proud.

I see the baby girl–me–

pointing to the photographer

my grandpa Stevenson

Clearly I know him.

My mother is amused and smiling.

My father leans back to balance,

holding me tightly in his arms

amazed at my face..

Sunday afternoon, trees nearby,

We’ve probably been to church.

In Pittsburg, Pennsilvania.

I, gleeful,happy.

The Twenty-fifth Poem

 Nearly grown baby peacocks from Next Door in mid-September 2022

The Twenty-Fifth Poem September 18, 22

Yesterday I was bold. I wrote

a sestina. I wasn’t sure I could.

But I did. It’s not brilliant but

it works. It’s about our backyard

visitors: the ducks and the peacocks.

They fly over the fence between

our house and next door’s. Does

our neighbor know they fly away?

They do return, and all this happens

early.and secretly. The peacocks

wait on our roof, waiting for Tim.

to scatter some chicken feed

outside the coop. I don’t often

see them, but I can hear them.

Both ducks and peacocks follow

their mothers. Imagine peacock

babies, now nearly as big as their

mother. And in my kitchen

cupboard I found a cup with a

peacock in splendid colors: tiny

head, big, beautiful tail feathers,

now my tea cup. I also decided

to publish my last book, Frost

and Sun. I’ll find the money,

raise the money. I will do it.

With help. Why not?

The Twenty-fourth Poem

Mother Moscovy Duck with babies in our backyard from next door

The Twenty-Fourth Poem September 11, 2022

These are my weapons against

falling: a many-colored cane,

and a black one, and when I’m 

tired, or barely awake, a black

three-wheeler called a rollator,

but I call it my buggie. Sometimes

I walk on my own two feet and

hold my breath. The words don’t

wait until I finish my toast.  On

Sunday morning they’re ready

to go so I let them. The toast

can wait, but the words are very

demanding, even impatient, and

too precious to ignore. So I yield

to their awesome power, their

no nonsense demands until they

slide to a stop. Then I finish

my toast.

Tht twenty-third Poem

 Lisa, daughtee, and Aleksei , father, on motorcycle in  city center, Kostroma, Russia

The Twenty-Third Poem September 4, 2022

I’m alive. I wasn’t sure I’d live

this long, but here I am. The

medicine still works. I still wake

up early or later than I intended.

My body has its own rules, and

I obey as best I can: eat more

toast, drink more tea. The words

begin. They call me in. My mind

cooperates. It’s not a trick. It’s

a reward, a gift. My brain’s not

ready yet to call it quits.

The twenty-Second Poem

 Nadya, Russian Painter, in snow.

The Twenty-second Poem August 28, 2022

Why do I lie awake at midnight

after a mere four hours of sleep

and by day sleep grabs me before

I can stop it, without reason or

explanation? I try reading and

that occasionally works, but

my mind likes to be preoccupied,

There are mysteries with aging.

Generally, I’m doing well, but

there are those puzzles to which

I have no answers or remedies.

The Twenty-first Poem

Durham and Kostroma people (Sister Cities gathering)

The Twenty-first Poem August 21, 2022

The fragile human body! It can

seem tough, but it turns out to be

breakable, Not long ago I broke

three toes. I’ve fallen on my head,

half in/half out of the chicken coop,

or backwards at the sink. I’ve

learned to catch myself before I

fall, and even go months without

falling. And walk short distances

with no cane or walker. Yet I live

now knowing I can fall so easily,

so without warning. It’s part of

aging, living with this unpredictability.

We do heal. Once I got a black eye,

when I couldn’t stop running and

had to fall to stop myself. And then

I couldn’t get up. People around

me worry I’ll do it again. Never

intended, always unexpected.

My doctor calls me “Trouble.”

Yet she defends me to my son:

“It’s how she does as well as

she does.” Despite my falls,

I thrive.

 

The Twentieth Poem

 Mayor Boris Korobov, the first Russian I ever met, and he stayed my friend

The Twentieth Poem August 14, 2022

As I get older, I find myself

entranced with photos of babies,

especially with photos of myself

from that beginning .Both my

grandfathers took photos of me

at my beginning, caught my smiles,

my surprise when a camera

appeared beside my bed. I seem

to remember that crib. where I

slept in my grandparents’ house.

Not long after, I have a memory

of snow, my father and I with a

yardstick, which went down into

the snow, down, down, and I

knew my father loved me. He

had, by then, a new job in Ithaca,

New York. Another photo shows

him holding me, with my mother

on the other side, and I was

pointing my finger at my grandfather

as he snapped the photo, its being

clear that he loved me, too. Lucky

baby, so surrounded by love, so

safe. I think of all the years that

followed and the love that held

me safe for the rest of 

my long life.

The Nineteenth Poem

Mikhael Bazankov in conversation.

The Nineteenth Poem August 7, 2022

They came in all shapes

and sizes. Only one seemed

happy to be here. And she

started a garden. She liked

taking Sophie out. Another

one took over sorting my

books: ones I’d keep and

ones I’d give away. A

Young one liked to clean.

Our household is rahter

informal, but we look better

than we once did. I became

eligi le for help from Medicaid

and they sent me a woman

who talked on her phone

no magger what else she was

doing. She went through the

motions but unenthusiastically.

I asked for someone else.

The next one worked quietly

and hard. She would do what

i asked, but she never smiled.

Finally she said she wouldn’t

be back. She had another job.

A new person would come

on Monday. What would

she be like? Heaven knows?

 

The Eighteenth Poem

  Lyuba Belikh's painting of a chilikh's painting d's tea party

 The Eighteenth Poem July 31, 2022

And then I fell. Backwards.

as I stood by the stove, 

measuring out the ginger

root, the water running to

fill the big stew pot, and I

pulled off the oven door,

trying to stop myself. I hadn’t

fallen since April. I was proud

of my no-fall record. I sat up

but couldn’t see where I could

pull myself back up. So I pressed

the button on my new medical

alert I now wear all the time.

A voice asked, “What is wrong,

Judy?” I said, “I fell and can’t

get up, and the water is running.”

I had just finished setting up my

Life Station for emergencies.

It took awhile, but then i heard

the words “Help is on the way.”

It took awhile, but then a man

came in through the front door.

He understood how to get the

door key. I said, “Turn off

the water. I was afraid the water

would overflow the sink. It didn’t.

It went down the drain. He got me

to my feet and backed me to a

chair. Then he said, “Don’t move,” 

went to get his case and checked

my vitals. Janet arrived and sat

down and watched. My blood

pressure was up, but it slowly

came down. I was shaking and

couldn’t stop. “Do you want

to go to the hospital?” “No.”

Janet stayed until he left and

I stopped shivering. My son Tim.

arrived. He’d been farther away.

Then Janet went back to her work.

I was fine.

The Seventeenth Poem

 Galya and Alexander  visiting the D.C. area a few years ago

The Seventeenth Poem July 24, 2022

The roosters crowing, the sky

still dark. How do they know

the light is coming? Is it my

light when I take away the

shadows and reveal the kitchen,

the bread knife, and the tea cup,

the honey jar and spoon, when

I rejoice at being awake again

on a Sunday poem morning?

The words start before I finish

my bread and butter. My body

has little aches, more twinges

when I lift my arms. Whatever

inside me is still asleep, wakes

now to hear the rooster’s 

announcement of a new day.

The Sixteenth Poem

Judy and Mikhail some years ago in Kostroma, Russia

The Sixteenth Poem July 17, 2022

When I want to sleep and can’t,

I eat a midnight snack, then wait

for sleep to take me. It will come,

but I don’t know when or why it

waits so long. Sometimes I make

, myself remember when my new

beloved used love words in another

language that I didn’t know, yet

I was sure he loved me. That

unexpected love that held me up,

that took me over. We both wanted

to live in a small house in the

forest. He said one day we’d each

have a wing and fly sosmewhere

together. He left me. It will be

my turn next. I’m glad I’m still

alive and sleep still comes. One

day death, too, will arrive, and we’ll

fly as one, as two, joined at last.

The Fifteenth Poem

Judy by my friend Debbie Meyer on July 9 in my home in Moncure

 2022

The Fifteenth Poem July 10, 2022

I was reading my newest mystery 

when they came: Mother and two

of her children. A girl of thirteen

and a boy of eight. The mother took

pictures of me. The girl was restless

but quietly; the boy was curious

about everything. She took them to

see my chickens before they left.

They brought fruit with them.

Cherries, melons, peaches, and

a fat tomato. I went on the internet

and showed her my blog, where I

post my Sunday morning poem.

Over the years, she has hung onto

me, helped me in various ways.

This time fruit and photos, sharing

her children. She said I was beautiful.

Hard to believe. My doctor, the day

before, said I was doing great.

“Come back in six months." It had

been every three months. I love

to see her. But she was complimenting

me. I told her about being wakeful

in the night and eating my first

breakfast, and later, when I got up,

my second breakfast. “What do you

eat?” she asked. “Toast with my

homemade bread and tea with 

lemon grass and ginger.

The Fourteenth Poem

 Kostroma Librarians at a celebration of our Sister Cities anniversary in Durham, Judy in red.    1999

The Fourteenth Poem                                      July 3, 2022

Sun caught in leaves across the street.

I overslept, for which I’m grateful.

I’ll make bread today, my own

healthy bread, wash dishes, put the tea

in jars, read a new book, but first a

new poem.. People do read them,

here and around the world. I’m quiet

in the world right now. I’s hard to

remember all the groceries we

need. I did my best. I finished

another book last night. At two a.m.

I was haunted by one of the scenes.

I wonder if my poems haunt anyone 

in the wide-flung world.  I hope

they comfort in Canada, Japan,

China, Russia, Ukraine, Italy, Spain,

the U.S.

The Thirteenth Poem

 Aleksei Belich and his daughter Vera getting water at the country

 house

The Thirteenth Poem June 26, 2022

And those who care for me?

One goes the extra mile.

Another has no interest

after awhile. Most have

liked working for me. If one

hates me, no point being

humiliated. Skin color fails

to bother me, but I can tell

when I’m barely tolerated.

I’ve been lucky with my

doctors. The good ones

get me laughing, make me

love them. Once I didn’t

need so many helpers.

Now I do. My son works

longer hours, and for some

things I need more help.

I’ve also been one who

cares for the sick, for

the very young or the

very old. Some people

don’t want help ever, but

wisdom suggests to take

what you need and

be grateful.

The Twelfth Poem

 '

Lyuba Belikh Being Honored at her exhibit in Kostroma, Russia. 

She's in the middle behind the speaker.

The Twelfth Poem June 19, 2022

My sleep pattern varies. I eat when I

can’t sleep. Yet when I read, I fall

asleep. My body has its own rhythm.

I try to keep up. It’s not painful, but

it remains unexpected. Once I’ve eaten,

I enjoy being awake, and sometimes I

stay awake on purpose. Why not? I

told that to the lady who interviewed me.

She couldn’t believe her ears.. I repeated:

I eat when I can’t sleep. Let her wonder.

I don’t weigh much. Maybe it helps keep

my weight steady. It’s a curious phase

of my life: Hardly any pain, but less

control. Still I think, I write. I make

meals, even quiche. and my own organic

bread,, yoghurt, and my lemon ginger

tea. Small pains, but nothing major.

I could live more years like this.

Who knows?

The Eleventh Poem

Lisa, a Russian child, in Kostroma in winter

The Eleventh Poem June 12, 2022

The days go by quietly.

I eat the end of one loaf,

the beginning of another.

The words form before

I ask for them. Am I losing

my memory? A little, but

not significantly. I plan

to teach again in September.

Four women writing their

books count on me. I’ll

tell them, “If I make a

mistake, let me know.”

My memory is sometimes

slow, but it’s still alive.

I see those scenes again.

Myself in a room with

Russian journalists and

a frightened interpreter.

She doesn’t know my

English words. We manage.

They understand me. The

tape-recorder breaks. They

laugh. A familiar problem

in Russia. But unlikely in

the U.S.  I sip my tea, finish

my toast. Another Sunday

morning poem flows from 

my pen.

The days go by quietly.

I eat the end of one loaf,

the beginning of another.

The words form before

I ask for them. Am I losing

my memory? A little, but

not significantly. I plan

to teach again in September.

Four women writing their

books count on me. I’ll

tell them, “If I make a

mistake, let me know.”

My memory is sometimes

slow, but it’s still alive.

I see those scenes again.

Myself in a room with

Russian journalists and

a frightened interpreter.

She doesn’t know my

English words. We manage.

They understand me. The

tape-recorder breaks. They

laugh. A familiar problem

in Russia. But unlikely in

the U.S.  I sip my tea, finish

my toast. Another Sunday

morning poem flows from 

my pen.

The Tenth Poem

 Katya and Larissa in Gorka village Russia, after picking raspberries

The Tenth Poem June 5, 2022

Sun outlines everything. We wait

for the first line to tell us what

we’re thinking, comment on who

we are, where we are on life’s

journey, and what comes next.

That’s the secret: we don’t know

the future. We can but wait for it

to show its face, reveal its pain

and joy. I think mine will be

more happiness than hardship.

People now help me more than

I expected. I get more than 

I deserved. Two helpers 

plant tomatoes in my garden. 

Another cleans the crowded

refrigerator. I read favorite

authors. When I can’t sleep, 

I have an early breakfast.

Later I sleep soundly and well.

I’m grateful.

The Ninth Poem

 Mikhail, president of the Kostroma Writers Organization at an Art Exhibit opening some years ago

The Ninth Poem May 29, 2022

Can it be true? Peace at last?

I think so. Let them work it out.

Why should I suffer because of

their fight? I see no reason for

their anger. Let it go. Look at

the bright light announcing

another day. Hear the rooster

celebrating. He has the right

idea. Enjoy your peacefulness.

Right now. Right here on a 

Sunday morning with no traffic, 

no loud noises. Inside or out.

You can be as peaceful, too.

Find your courage. Hear your

steady heart beat. You’re awake

while the house sleeps. Someone

pulled up onions and left them

on the table. They’re at peace.

The rooster sings peace. My

heart sings peace. No need

to worry. I’m alive, I’m one

year older. If I’m quiet and

relaxed, my peace will 

ascend. I can let go.

The Eighth Poem

     Dasha, the granddaughter of my co-worker Mikhail

The Eighth Poem May 22, 2022

I have my helpers. One grew a garden.

I bought the seeds. She fertilized, weeded,

planted. We did flowers the first year.

Then vegetables: okra, peas, onions,

tomatoes. She and her husband built

a shed for earthworms and fed them

weeds. Another helper sorted my books.

I chose the ones I wanted to keep. 

She boxed and labeled: keep or give

away. She loved books. Now I’m to

have a new one. A nurse to help me

walk better and go outside more and

do more sorting. It’s a small house

and my clothes are in a big heap.

Time to sort them. I’m pretty good

with people. The chances are we’ll

like each other, and my living space

will be neater. She can help me

bring down some cobwebs and walk

better. We all have our strengths

and weaknesses. I’ll meet her on

Tuesday. I hope she likes me and

we can laugh together.

The Seventh Poem

Mayor Korobov, the first Russian I met, who made Russia attractive to me in 1989,

The Seventh Poem May 15, 2022

The season changes with rain,

with sun. We close on May soon,

enter June. Summer beckons.

The hens keep laying. The sun

turns the curtains full orange.

I wake as if from a drugged sleep,

close and open my hands, pull

myself upright and make my

toast, heat tea. These days are

full. My mind sends me words

as it wakes. Many thoughts

converge. I expect messages.

Too much at once, yet I want

all that is coming my way. I

live among my worries, yet

hope for the best answers,

the best help,

the certainty of love.

The Sixth Poem

 Aleksei, Russian National Painter during Golden Autumn

The Sixth Poem May 8, 2022

Generations: sometimes they collide.

They live many miles apart, but meet

for special occasions like graduations.

The grandfather learns new things.

They’re being taught to care, a new

concept embraced in academia. Why

doesn’t he understand me? The

grandmother and grandfather are

both exhausted after the long drive

up the mountain. The son has other

things on his mind, and he has work

to do: a deadline coming. Both men

grow impatient. The grandmother

listens to both. When she leaves

the room, their fight intensifies,

and the grandfather walks out.

Family dynamics are often

difficult, Can we make up this rift?

Maybe.

The Fifth Poem

 At the dacha in summer Alyosha, Aleksei, Nadya, and Xenia (grandchildren with their granddparents)

The Fifth Poem May 1, Sunday, 2022

When swords cross, who wins?

No one. Both lose respect, the faith

of other people. Knowledge spreads

when you attack those on whom

you depend. Others suffer, too. No

one wins, only the swords and the

wounds left afterwards. Sadness

spreads. Silence wins. No one 

laughs. People forget how to love, 

how to be grateful for all the gifts

they have received. It’s a kind of

hell, whether you believe in God

or not. The only way to end it is

to ask forgiveness. And that’s a

hard one. Sword play never works

when people should love one another.

The Fourth Poem

 Kostroma University Rector and my friend Alyosha Bazankov, a history teacher

The Fourth Poem April 24th, 2022

Photos comfort me when I’m sad or lonely.

My sister sent me one of my family before

I turned two. My young father held me, with

my mother close by. I raised my hand and

pointed at the photographer, my grandfather.

You can tell I loved him. He used to let us

play doctor with him later when he had

heart troubles. He’d lie on the floor and

give us his stethoscope. He died when I was

eight, in 1945. The second world war was

ending. We came for a month to help my

grandmother. She always called me Judith,

never Judy. “Judith, don’t sit in the draft. 

You’ll catch your death.” That scared me,

but Grandpa never did. Then I have a

photo of my friend Margaret with her first

baby, Marshall. She was looking down

at him, amazed, stunned, his head no bigger

than her hand. I’d come back from the beach

in 1986 when I learned her labor had begun.

We worked together. She helped me with my 

Carolina Wren Press and the work of

publishing books. And I arrived in time

to be present as she pushed Marshall out.

I love that connection: the awed mother

and the tiny new baby. Now Baby Marshall

has babies of his own. Life goes on.

The Third Poem

The two adults are painters, Vera and Aleksei Belikh in the Russian countryside. Ksenia is Vera's youngest child

The Third Poem April 17, Easter Sunday, 2022

My days are the same: tea and toast.

Honey in the tea. After seven, the orange

light in the window. I wake slowly, bring

to the table, my current book and my 

water bottle, buttered toast and a mug of

tea. I’m warm enough in my pullover

shirt and  wool jacket. Everything where

I left it. The tea warms me. The toast

soothes my hunger. I pull up the blanket

that lives in my writing chair. Walker

and cane keep me mobile. I write my

Sunday poem. The words find me. I

have no need to work hard, though

today I’ll make bread, which takes

hours. Easter to me is the green world

coming alive again. “Green, green,

green!” I think of the Spanish poet

Lorca. How that expresses Easter, the

Earth’s celebration, the silent blooming

of green, a whole road through silent

green trees, an occasional white dogwood

or pink redbud You’d think I’d be

overwhelmed by such flamboyant green.

But no, I welcome the world’s

resurrection, its return to green.

 

The Second Poem

                         Aleksei  Belikh, Russian painter in his studio

The Second Poem April 10, 2022

The strawberries wait for me to clean them

and put them in the freezer. Janet brought

them back from Down East. I’m not doing

much work these day, but here are many

quarts of ripe, red strawberries, and my work

waits. They wait. I’m up early again because

I slept early. A little at a time, I’ll manage.

It might take me all day. I can’t fit that

big basket into the refrigerator, but slowly,

a quart at a time, I can take the stems off

and rescue them. What a gift. The first

strawberries. Help me save them. I’ve

missed them these months. There’s time.

They’re still okay.

I can do a lot of things slowly.

The First Poem

             Judy and Mikhail Bazankov in Kostroma, Russia, 1992

The First Poem April 3, 2022

You are surrounded by people who love you.

They don’t say much, but they come to see you,

call you up, send you emails and cards, hold

your arm when you’re walking in a new place,

or getting in or out of a car. You try not to fall,

but if you do, they’re right there to pull you up,

untangle you from your walker, carry a hot cup

of tea. You need more understanding and

support than you ever did before. So, despite

some frustrations, you can’t complain. You’re

valued, respected, and people love you.