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.