Sharing a bit of poetry which I recorded on Sound Cloud many moons ago.
As I head off on a brief journey up into the woods and hills, I am anticipating the time I will spend with my mother. Dementia has hijacked so much and yet there is still joy. There is still beauty.
And poetry remains. To be excavated, dusted off, writen, savored and read.
We will read hers. We will read Milne.
We will crawl into the waiting arms of poetry. A refuge in the storm. A card catalog of now and then.