Category Archives: Photography

Rising, Setting, the Sound

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Monday Morning Musings:

Rising, Setting, the Sound

The flame consuming marshmallow clouds,
the carmine mouth, swallowing, drowned and resurrected
the ineffable ephemerality of the blaze, the endurance of the light

echoes from black holes, each star with its own voice, our sun,
a sonorous, soothing om

coaxing both shoots of chartreuse and emerald, and
sandy beige, terracotta, and taupe, the violet sky against
winter white,

each rising and setting a gift, a reminder
of what was, what is, and what might be

disaster or promise. The wine in the glass


carries the substance of long-ago grapes, our bodies
carry infinitesimal specks of all who came before,
the light
in particles too tiny to see
they pass around and through us,
in the songs of the universe,
star to sea,
bird to butterfly—
the calls of crows warning and reminding—
look up, watch out.

Here are some cool sounds:

Light echoes from a black hole

Our sun

Everything seems strange and a bit off these days, doesn’t it? The rise of fascism all over the world, and people believing the most far-fetched lies (let’s call them what they are). And the increasing climate extremes all over the world. Early this morning, I was thinking of Benjamin Franklin’s remarks about the rising sun of our new nation:

“Doctr. FRANKLIN looking towards the Presidents Chair, at the back of which a rising sun happened to be painted, observed to a few members near him, that Painters had found it difficult to distinguish in their art a rising from a setting sun. I have said he, often and often in the course of the Session, and the vicisitudes of my hopes and fears as to its issue, looked at that behind the President without being able to tell whether it was rising or setting: But now at length I have the happiness to know that it is a rising and not a setting Sun.”

Sources: https://www.ushistory.org/more/sun.htm (has photos of the chair)

https://avalon.law.yale.edu/18th_century/debates_917.asp

But I wonder now, if we’re seeing it setting. My friend is convinced that all young people are apathetic about politics, and they are misinformed because they get their news from Tiktok. That is what she hears from her children and grandchildren. I’m sure that’s true for many, but we’re all influenced by those around us. Those surrounded by MAGA types think everyone thinks that way. My own family and friends do not include anyone like that, so that’s my bubble. But it’s not the full story; it never is. In Hawaii, the governor Josh Green applauded the children and teens who had sued the state government. He agreed they had a constitutional right to a clean climate. These young people are not alone in trying to make the world better.

I’m fired up by reading Heather Cox Richardson and Will Bunch. I’m writing postcards to swing states and donating money. I’m not a rabble-rousing-march-in-the-streets-type of person, but don’t want to be complacent. I don’t want to be one of those people who sit back and say, “Oh well. We can’t do anything.” Look at how well that went in the 1930s.

On a brighter note, the summer solstice was beautiful. 😉 We sat in the shade at William Heritage Winery, and then we watched the sun set over the Delaware River at Red Bank Battlefield. On Friday, the heatwave began with extreme (for June) heat and humidity.

The Flow

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Monday Morning Musings:

The Flow

“What was it like?” she asks me again. It was like being a leaf in a river. I fell in and was carried along.”
― Ann Patchett, Tom Lake

The leaf greens and browns. It falls,
windswept to sail on a river.

I am the leaf.
I am the river,
time-tossed, fate-flung,
carried, carrying
history in my blood,
stories in my soul.

Shall I tell you
my journey from stars to sea,
boney-spined, clawing the sand,
the dust of sparkling multitudes
flowing within,

glimpsed in eyes still—the twinkle, shine,
burning. The yearning.

My own story, more interesting than some,
less interesting than most, but I can leaf-spin

so that you follow
along the shore to taste the summer-peach sun,
to see a white-flower bride stand in reflection
against an azure sky,


to smell honeysuckle and roses on the breeze,


to hear the mockingbird’s virtuosic aria, and
a cloud-walking crow’s warning

of what could be– but might not. Death circles
like a vulture. The precipice
ever closer, the volcanoes that may erupt,
the deluge that may come—or the drought—

and war, and war, and war, and war. . . .and then
thousands of births, goslings, kittens, humans.

You may be unaware. So I will tell you, listen
for the robin choir before the sun dresses in scarlet,
sip ruby-dark wine, remember antiquity, live now,

the river calls, and I am part of it.
I let it carry me, a leaf, onward.

We’re headed for a heat wave. There is a heat advisory beginning tomorrow, but it was beautiful early this morning, and over the weekend. On Thursday, when we thought it might be too hot, we went to “Vino and Vibes” at William Heritage Winery. It is members’ month, so we had a free glass of wine and a complimentary cheese box, and then bought a bottle of wine while we sat in the shade of still-light early evening.

On Saturday, we picked up our farm market share and walked in the part in Collingswood. Sunday was Father’s Day. Our daughter and her husband took my husband out to a brewery. Our son-in-law graciously consenting to be the DD. Our older child will be visiting later in the month, and they will take my husband to a baseball game.

We watched the movie, Problemista, which we both enjoyed very much. I don’t know comedian Julio Torres’ work, but he wrote and directed it. It’s surreal and has magical realism and fantasy woven through it, but it also conveys the surreal plight of immigrants who must have money to pay lawyers (and to live) but have to find sponsors who don’t pay them. Tilda Swinton gets to do some over-the-top scene chewing.

I read Tom Lake by Ann Padgett. Mothers and daughters, family, theater, summer romance, cherries—what’s not to love here? As a mother on a cherry farm tells her grown daughters the story of her brief love affair with a famous actor, the action switches back and forth from their present (during the Covid lockdown) to the mother’s past the way it might in a conversation. I could imagine telling a story to my own grown children. This was a near-perfect book for me. I might have sighed as I finished it. My Michigan friends might really love this book, too—also anyone who loves Our Town, which I may have to see again or read.

The Ferocious Eye Blinks After a Breath

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Monday Morning Musings:

The Ferocious Eye Blinks After a Breath

A week of innumerable flavors and shades—the air
damp steam room towels and stinky cheese becomes
blueberry cobbler then pale seafoam dusted
with salt, scented with strawberries and roses.

I think what some call gods, I call nature,
as I swallow sublimity, taste transcendence,
feel the intensity of blue calling me. Currents become thoughts,
become words. The universe beginning with a letter,
a sound

the way of any birth, a cry,
and we, startled deer,

our shadows elongate, they get small,
tiny spiders glimmering webs.

The fish crows call “Uh oh! Uh Oh!”
as the vultures circle,

Death is our constant, a patient stalker,
if fate is kind
we find our people, we find peace
before scattering our stardust to sow
the earth and seed the sea. See it there
glistening on spindrift as the waves crest and tumble. A new dawn.

The middle of this past week turned hot and very humid with threats of severe storms that fortunately did not materialize. We were going to go sit outside at a winery one night with friends, but it was simply too humid for us. But we went on Saturday afternoon instead, and it was a beautiful day. My friend Pat (you made the cut) took the photos of us and the wine (un-oaked Chardonnay and Syrah). She told my husband “no Goofy shots.” I was at Pat’s house (you made the cut twice) for lunch on Friday with another friend. Look at the lovely table she set for us. Everything was delicious, and it was a beautiful afternoon with friends of many decades.

On Sunday, we saw Hilma, a contemporary opera at the Wilma Theater in Philadelphia. It’s a world premiere in partnership with New Georges theater. (You can find out more here, including the dramaturg’s note and streaming tickets.) The Wilma is receiving a Tony award this year, next Sunday actually. We’re subscribers to the Wilma because we appreciate the way they push boundaries, take risks, and are always adventurous. We haven’t loved every play there, but we always go wondering what we will find. I did love Hilma, and I also appreciated what the theater did and the risks it took. They’ve never performed an opera before, and the actors were not opera singers; however, they carried the tunes and lyrics. I really liked the way lighting, the set design, and the costumes contributed to the show.

Hilma af Klint was born to an aristocratic family in Sweden. She was a trained artist who had won a place at the Royal Academy in Stockholm, but sexism, as well as tradition, limited the scope of what she painted. She was very interested in the new discoveries that were being made in science at this time. She was also interested in spiritualism and became a follower of Theosophy. (It’s founder, Rudoph Steiner, is sort of the bad guy in the opera.) The show explored Hilma’s queerness, as well as mysticism. She lived and worked with a group of women. Her journals seem to indicate she had female lovers. Her artistic work became a “commission” she accepted from the transcendent guides. She wrote in one of her journals, “The pictures were painted directly through me, without an preliminary drawings and with great force. I had no idea what the paintings were supposed to depict, nevertheless I worked swiftly and surely, without changing a single brushstroke.” She is now credited with being one of the first abstract painters. When she tried to show her work, it was dismissed or ridiculed. She then requested it be exhibited only 20 years after her death. The first big exhibition of her work took place in 2018 at the Guggenheim.

Fold and Gathers

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Monday Morning Musings:

Folds and Gathers

“The past and present wilt—I have fill’d them, emptied them.
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.”
–Walt Whitman, Song of Myself, 51

I look from above and from within
turbulent waves, caught in crosscurrents
and riptides,
a herring–

watch me slide red into a school of silver,
one distraction in a multitude of thoughts
cloud-drifting, space-rifting, pausing,
moving on.

I fold and unfold the wrinkled cloth
of time. Try to smooth it, but there are no
neat accordion pleats, it’s crumbled and creased,
the disheveled bedclothes of a restless sleeper

who has tossed pockets of crumbs and treasures,
babies with tired eyes and distended stomachs, roofs
in rubble, purple anguish in blackened streets,

a single red flower, a manifold mix of yellow, pink, violet
and more
multitudinous birds, a kaleidoscope of feathered, chirping hues—
robins fill the dawn with song,
eagles soar with crow chasers,
as the moon is swallowed

by blueberry skies and strawberry dreams, a respite,
a reflection captured in a small lull, a breath caught,
an exhalation, a dog-eared fold, marking a place in time.

We have had several days of perfect weather, but of course, it could not last. This week will be more humid, with a chance of rain and/or thunderstorms. And the downside of beautiful weather and people outdoors—violence at parties and family events. Sometimes I just hate people. Speaking of which, the orange one is now a convicted felon. We heard the news on Thursday afternoon that the jury had decided. This was just before we were leaving for my book club meeting. We listened to NPR in the car, and I was so anxious until I heard guilty on all 34 counts! What that means is yet to be determined, but it was good news for a change. His cult has their minds made up, and nothing will change them, but perhaps it will sway some people.

My daughter hosts a book club that meets at Blue Cork Winery in Williamstown, NJ. The book we read was The Women by Kristin Hannah. (My husband kindly comes as my driver.) I liked the book, maybe not as much as some people, but it sparked a great discussion. This was probably my favorite meeting, as we had a small, lively group, and we got to sit outside on a beautiful evening. The novel is about a woman (more than women, as we all agreed) who was a nurse in Vietnam. The first part of the book was very intense, but also probably the section I enjoyed the most. However, I liked some of the other characters much more than the protagonist. Though I was impressed by what she learned and accomplished in Vietnam, I was also annoyed by first her gung-ho naiveté, and then her series of bad decisions. Still, the book is compelling, and it honors the women who served. Our discussion focused on the era, as much as the book, with my friend Chris and I the oldest members there. Though I only remembered my family protesting the war and had no family members who served there, she had different memories and had a POW bracelet.

I then read Absolution by Alice McDermott. This covers roughly the same era, but it is about the US corporate wives, all White, living in Saigon. It is much more a literary novel, but I think I enjoyed it more. It is written from the point of view of one of those wives much later as she writes to the now grown daughter of one of the other women she knew there. The main character is also naïve, swayed by Charlene (the novel’s most fascinating character) into do-gooder schemes without understanding the consequences, without really understanding anything about the people who live there.

This year we have a weekly farm share from Buzby Farms. We pick it up at the Collingswood Farmers’ Market. On Saturday, they had an open house for their farm share members, which included a tour of the farm, picking strawberries (the free amount determined by your share), and then complimentary lemonade and strawberry shortcake. Our daughter and her friend (who was our older child’s best friend since elementary school) also have shares, and they were there, too. It was such a beautiful day. We took a walking tour of the farm, and we got to see the kiwi berries they grow, the greenhouses with radiant floor heat. They power it with a wood furnace, and the wood comes from branches, dead trees, scraps of wood on the farm, etc. We also saw the hydroponic structure used to grow tomatoes. We were amused by the energetic dog(s) who ran all over the farm. I think everyone, people and dogs, must sleep well at night. It is a family farm owned and managed by two generations. I made a batch of freezer jam with some of the strawberries.

Thank you for all who read this entire post. I got carried away today. 😅

More Words

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Monday Morning Musings:

More Words

Lilac-tinged, the swelling sails,
a schooner in the sky
resplendent on the river,
I want to swallow the sublimity,
feel it flow, a current through my heart.

I watch for words, as stars pinprick the pitch-black
bringing light, illumination, enlightenment.

I learn peristeronic means suggestive of pigeons,
recall it as said birds swoop before us in an urban park,
but imagine human couples with bobbing heads
leaning in, murmuring endearments, sharing gossip.

And what of the turkey in the road?
Majestic, mundane, or unaware? Perhaps all three,
I wonder what he thinks—

instinct or more that makes the goose parents
protect their young, remember reading of the inconsolable
gander who lost his mate.

I think of how we remember,
how love transcends boundaries
and time, seemingly as impossible as feeling a gaze

from across a room—
but what I don’t know is a universe—

maybe once on an island, a tree saved a girl,
and she was transformed

to live on in tales we tell, cultivated in cultural arboretums,
where they continue to bloom.


The Oracle gave me the title.

Today is Memorial Day. It is the traditional start of summer here in the US. Heather Cox Richardson has shared the story of Beau Bryant before. He was a young American man who served during WWII and became one its casualties. He was buried in Cambridge, England. And now, here we are again fighting fascism–and with a former president who openly embraces it.

This week, in between rain and storms, it has been summer hot. We are expecting thunderstorms this afternoon and evening, which could be severe. We had a few outings this week, to a new winery with our daughter and son-in-law. Saddlebrook is a beautiful site, as you might suspect, they have horses and other livestock on this farm surrounded by shopping centers and residential streets. We were not super-impressed by the wine, but I suspect it will improve with time.

On Saturday, we saw Once On This Island at the Arden Theatre in Old City Philadelphia. It was a wonderful production—great voices, choreography, set design—very enjoyable. As usual, we walked around before the performance.

On Sunday, we had a family get-together at my sister and sister-in-law’s house. We usually get together on Mother’s Day, at the beginning of May, but yesterday worked out better. I missed part of the family socializing to attend a Zoom poetry launch for Damien B. Donnelly’s new poetry collection, Back from Away. It was a lovefest for Damien, and I was honored that he asked me to be one of his featured readers. I was also happy to have a cat in attendance.

Parting Clouds

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Monday Morning Musings:

Parting Clouds

“Every why hath a wherefore.”
Dromio of Syracuse, The Comedy of Errors by William Shakespeare

This is May, coyly dropping
one white handkerchief,
then another,

peeking through a filmy veil
furtive, then flirty, fetching,
but unfathomable

as counting stars,
the wherefores separated
from the whys

like small ships spread
across an immeasurable sea

still sailing for home,
waiting to be reunited,

though seasons have leapt
through wormholes,

chicks in full flight,
saplings thick and towering, elders
heard now only in midnight whispers of
tree-sough and river murmurs,
the ferocious hum of the wobbling, gibbous moon.

I can’t believe we’re two-thirds through May. Between caring for Ricky, then grief, the end of April and beginning of May were a blur. On top of that, we’ve had so much rain and grey, dreary days. Saturday morning, we picked up our first farm share at a farmer’s market, but it was raining, and we didn’t walk around much. We did buy some basil and lavender plants. Sunday, we finally saw some sunshine—and we went out for real for the first time in a long time. We took the Patco train into the city and walked around before we saw the Lantern Theater Company’s production of The Comedy of Errors. It was silly fun—full of slapstick humor, wordplay, and clever sound effects. It was the light-hearted humor we needed. We then sat outside at Tria café, where we saw urban cowboys and watched people and vehicles, as I drank wine, my husband beer, and we both nibbled on cheese. I’ve included some Goofy photos for Derrick. I saw a cat in a barbershop window. We both had bittersweet feelings that we didn’t have to get home to feed Ricky. It’s foggy and grey this morning, but the sun should be out later, and we’re going to have hot, summer weather by the middle of the week.

Small Thing Enjoyed

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Monday Morning Musings:

Small Things Enjoyed

Joy is slow to come,
it sips from a glass heart,
still fragile, ready to shatter, but a sip is enough

to wet my lips, to quench neurons
in the night, sending if on a new journey

of possibilities, not doubts. I’m dazzled by
dream poems in dream worlds

that bleed away when I wake, remember
you’re not here–

but almost is like small paws leading me,
reminding me that vacuums do not remain
unfilled. That scabs form to protect wounds
so that we heal. Even scars fade with time, the course
of a dried stream bed on a plain. The earth
remembering water, waiting
for a flower to bloom. Again.

Last night was the first time in a long time that I dreamt poems, none of which I remember. But it was a world-building sort of dream, like a Star-Trek episode, with me constructing poetry from everyday circumstances, and my daughter there smiling and doing a bit of eye-rolling. I woke up happy, and then remembered Ricky wasn’t there. I think first thing in the morning is when I miss him the most.

We had Chinese food on Thursday night, and this was my fortune cookie fortune.

The weather has been as crazy as my up and down heart. Last week we had the heat on one day and the a/c on another. Friday was cold and rainy, Saturday was beautiful. Yesterday, we turned the heat back on in the morning to warm the house. Today is supposed to be pleasant and in the 70s. (It’s 42 F right now.) Between the weather and Ricky, I hadn’t been to the park in several days. I discovered there were now lots of new little goslings. I hope—I like to think–some hatched on Thursday when Ricky died.

Yesterday was Mother’s Day. I had a long talk with older child on Friday, and they sent me “fancy cheese” for Mother’s Day. Husband gave me chocolates (a lot of chocolate!). Younger child and her husband came over with their two dogs so I could have some puppy love and laughter. I asked them how they don’t laugh all the time at their pittie. That crazy face, but still so adorable. For some reason, their dogs go wild for bread. Daughter brought a feast—homemade bread, a selection of cheeses and jams, brownies and cookies, and wine. We did wine pairings with the variety of wines and cheeses. All of us liked the Italian red the most (tannic, but not astringent), and nobody liked the ice wine. It was a very lovely several hours.

I took a few days to just read novels and watch TV. I didn’t want to read or write poetry. I said to my husband that I’d forgotten that grief is so exhausting. It’s been four years since the horrible week in April when our Mickey cat died on Monday and my mom on Saturday, and the world shut down. I have to get back to work now, as I have a work assignment due. Thank you all for your kind comments, texts, and emails. 💙

Messengers of May

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Monday Morning Musings:

Messengers of May

I forgot to light a candle last night,
forgot the dead, forgot the past,
focused on breath and sparks
of life, the flowers blooming,
as Death is looming, a long shadow
over blue.

I dreamt of a rainbow, dreamt of life,
not knowing Iris meant rainbow, not knowing
she was a go-between, crossing the arc, the bridge
between the gods and humans. Fleet-footed envoy, a graceful queen,
she carries the colors for Persephone and Demeter
to herald May, whatever it brings.

This is the month of flowers and revolution. This is the month
of death and new life. Pink to purple, spring green to moss and
emerald. The buzzing bees are striped broaches pinned to brilliant blooms.
Now the robins with full choir wake the sun, and goslings toddle after goose
and gander.

But iris is the messenger of come what May.
My little cat has another day. And though the crows call, Beware!
I smile as the spring flowers rise and wave, toss their scent
into the air.

This year Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day) was sunset last night till sunset today. For those just catching up, our little Ricky cat has liver cancer, but he is still hanging on, and we are grateful. We took him to an animal ER on Wednesday, where he had an ultrasound. I’m glad we decided to bring him home on palliative medication. He woke me up at 4 AM for breakfast today, so I apologize if I am not coherent.

The animal ER has a farm area.

This week we watched The River (Japanese, 2023) a delightful time-loop movie. This is director Yunta Yamaguchi’s second movie about a two-minute time loop. We also enjoyed the first one, Beyond the Infinite Two Minutes (2020). This one is more polished. It involves the staff and patrons at a beautiful inn by a river in Kyoto. It is heartwarming and funny, and just what we needed to see.

I read the novel, The Bookbinder by Pip Williams, a historical novel set in WWI Oxford that I enjoyed very much.


And we confirmed that we need to be careful when we go out in our yard.

Skunk in the yard!

Another Sunrise, Another Moonset

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Monday Morning Musings:

Another Sunrise, Another Moonset

Now the robins wake the sun,
not before four,
but a full chorus by half-past,

when our little cat, growing smaller,
has eaten some, not all,
do we call it breakfast anymore,
his small meals run together now.

We watch and wait,
grateful for another day of purrs and cuddles,
the big-eyed stare, the continuation of some routine—
sleep in the basket, blanket, chair–

and I am caught
halfway between ode and elegy,

April rain and April flowers.

Hello, again. It’s been a long week. I think our little Ricky cat may have liver cancer. He hasn’t had an ultrasound yet, but we may still have it done. Meanwhile, he’s on antibiotics, and he got a steroid shot on Saturday, which I think made him more comfortable. He seemed happier yesterday. Our days have been consumed with how much or how little he is consuming.

We were supposed to have our family Passover Seder/dinner yesterday, but I cancelled it. I froze the brisket, cooked the already defrosted turkey breast for my husband. Ricky was very interested in it, too–which was great to see–and I made us some vegetarian matzah ball soup. I have to say it’s delicious, and my matzah balls came out perfectly. I missed seeing my family, but I wasn’t up to hosting. My husband and I had a our mini Seder on Monday night, the first night of Passover. These are the matzah covers our children made when they were maybe 7 and 4? I love them, “Go Moses” and the Angel of Death. 😂 I made this almond-lemon cake for our dessert. It’s made with almond meal.

April continues to be crazy. We had our heat back on for several mornings this past week, but it was in the 80s yesterday and will be close to 90 today. It looks summery outside now—so green! And our irises are starting to bloom. I suspect our tulips may not last in the heat.

I saw this early morning street cleaner today.

Reborn, Spring

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Monday Morning Musings:

Reborn, Spring

“Nature is what we know—
Yet have no art to say—”
–Emily Dickinson, “’Nature’ is what we see”

“I sing the body electric”
–Walt Whitman, “I Sing the Body Electric”

Sunrise and Sunset

Now the birds chirp, drunk on spring,
for love and life,
the light that makes the moon blush,
the dazzle-blue of sky
its vibrant taste, it sings

your body electric in fields of green
where trees have pinked and floated
petals to encamp—a fairy army–on the grass.

Butterflies hover and rest
atop kaleidoscope colors that bee-burst
from the ground—

turkeys trot and rabbits run—
even vultures soar with joy,
called by sun.

Do you hear it call, too?
Even as you sleep, its song
is there,

and all of us–
specks of stardust, seeds of cosmic voyages,
wind-carried, someday returned

again to the grey or blue or green or
turquoise, clouded or sparkling sea. A roving,
rolling atom, beginning and end, you and me.

Today is Earth Day, and tonight is the first night of Passover, as antisemitism rises here and around the world. My husband and I will have our own little Seder tonight, and we’ll have the big family dinner here next weekend, toward the end of Passover. Even though I don’t believe in a biblical god, I celebrate the holiday and its traditions.

The weather has been all over the place again. Last Monday, we sat outside at a winery with temperatures in the low 80s F; now we have the heat back on for the early mornings (and a frost advisory). On Wednesday, we went to Blue Cork Winery in Williamstown, NJ, for a members’ celebration as they revealed their new outdoor furniture. We brought friends with us and had a great time, despite the chill. They posted lots of photos and videos on Facebook and Instagram. We had homemade pizza (I froze some for after Passover) and sci-fi Saturday, as we started watching the final season of Star Trek Discovery.