Living alone on a hill in Vermont gives me time
to integrate my thoughts. I’m consciously aware
of awe, growing. There’s so little time left . . .
I’m seeking to coordinate the mystery,
living the miracle. I’m pragmatic. I want to
orchestrate the experience of being.
All of it is coming into me . . .
Harmony and balance—
two words I completely adore.
A golden thread runs through
my life: each a new space affords
a panoramic view of what has happened.
There’s a driving force I couldn’t articulate
20 years ago. Just loving, without words
My husband was a business man
who didn’t enjoy being a CEO. He started
as an accountant, went into the Service, stateside.
We moved around. I didn’t put any roots down.
We bought houses and we sold them . . .
I was a city gal until I cam here
and then he left me . . . I was so frightened.
He was stricken. I called Day’s Funeral Home
and asked, “Do you suppose you could find
a place for Henry, some vacant space,
and some for me, his relic . . . or consort?”
All his ancestors were buried up here.
He had an uncle who used to live in Randolph Center.
He traced Egerton to first settlers on the ridge.
I drive by the cemetery three times a week.
I love him. He loved me in his way.
My windows face east and west.
Snow trees on my hillside slope down.
Joy wells up in the presence
of something . . . stupendous.
A big old birch is losing its branches
But it’s still reaching up,
Still reaching up, like me.