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?
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