Since my son was small
we have reveled in taking walks.
A flâneur by nature,
Nash has wandered the streets
of London, Chicago, Porto
New York, Montreal, Alexandria
and more.

Together
we have journeyed through
wood and bog,
city and country,
canal path and mountain trail.

He is my favorite walking companion,
always ready with a funny story,
intriguing fact or
simply quiet company.

Yesterday
we met to walk our three dogs.
His Cooper elated
to see half siblings,
Max and Georgia.

We walked along a nature trail
watching ospreys dip,
carrying off fish in tight talons.
Spring air
added a note of hopefulness
on a Sunday afternoon.

As March draws to a close,
I brim with thankfulness —
for Nash, his wife Claire, the pups,
health enough to walk,
a happy marriage,
a new home,
and…
the company of slice of life writers
who make March a stellar month.

I sent a dispatch,
a quiet missive.
The epistle
contained every letter
needed for communication.
I must report
it was difficult to give the lowdown
without sharing the good tidings.

*The last word of every line is a synonym for dispatch.

My grandfather died
when my father was seventeen.
Though I never knew Alfred,
I can imagine our conversation:

“Was it hard coming to America?”
I ask.

“I had no choice.
If I wanted a better life,
I needed to board a ship.”

“Were you alone?”
I inquire.

“On the ship, yes.
but I was lucky,
my older brother and a cousin
were already in America.
I had people to help me.”

“Why did you travel to Denver,
where my father was born?”
I posit, wondering if the conversation is tiring.

“Ah, you see my brother
was sick with tuberculosis.
He needed the hospital there.
I didn’t know it then,
but the disease would take me as well,
far too early.”

“I see.
I am sorry
the path was so arduous.
You should know, grandfather,
you paved a road
for joy, prosperity.”

“Good. Good.
Sometimes
we do not get to see
the fruits of our labor.
Immigrating was difficult, daunting.
I hope you always honor those
who make the crossing
from whatever home base.
Your roots are only as deep
as your spirit of generosity.
Don’t forget.”

I know my grandfather would be horrified
by America’s current lack of welcome.
Such short memories,
such cold hearts.

**The ship pictured above is the ship that brought my grandfather to America through Ellis Island.

It is my mother’s birthday.

She and her twin sister Barbara
would have been eighty-eight today.
Barbara went first in 2011,
taken by a cancer her nursing skills
could not solve.
My mother followed in 2020
a longer illness we were so thankful
finally released her.

Mom,
I hope the flowers
are perpetually blooming for you —
lilies, orchids, tulips, sunflowers.
I hope your room
is adorned with small treasures
from walks through the woods —
pine cones, moss, driftwood, ferns.

I hope you and Barbara
are sharing a hearty laugh
about the time you tried
to help each other
brave the strong ocean surf
and tumbled together onto the sand,
laughing so hard
you couldn’t breathe.

I hope you know
Peter, Katie and I
texted today,
missing you,
thankful
for the siblings you gave us.

Today is my mother’s birthday.
She is dearly missed.

**Written on March 26, 2025

Abuzz with chatter
the holly tree vibrates with
a host of sparrows

This morning as I walked into school, a nearby holly tree hummed with conversation. A haiku (three lines of 5-7-5) is perfect to capture this moment in nature.

“Let’s go see if we can find a poem”
I say to my two pups,
traveling companions
and adventurers extraordinaire.

Crisp morning air greets us
as we hit the streets
in search of inspiration.

Ahead a fox darts into the playground
past a stately old tree,
no children to witness the visitor.

We head up the slope
toward the red brick flounder house
where I sleep as a baby.

Yesterday’s rain
shakes from the branches
as a quickening breeze
ruffles the trees.

We start down towards the river bank
where an osprey nest
sits on a pylon just off shore,
the mother osprey watching
father pad their nest.

Out towards Jones Point,
where the lighthouse stands
marking the spot surveyors detailed
at Washington, D.C.’s inception.

Fiinally,
turning towards home
we hear the lone hoot
of an owl
resting high in an oak.

On our block
tiny crocuses
push up
through fresh mulch.

“My notebook is full of ideas!”
I say to Max and Georgia
as I unleash them,
offering a treat.

Poems are everywhere
if I just look up
from my life.

**This poem is a bit meta. It contains the seeds of many posts I have written this month.

Across the street
lives a wizened tree
on the grounds
of the local elementary school.

The tree has spent its days
watching over generation
after generation
of children.

The school
opened in 1935,
to meet the city’s need
for another segregated school.

What once held
a silk factory on the edge of town
now buzzed with young Black voices.

The tree was shorter
back then —
less girth, less stability.
Still an attraction
for children
looking for a leg up.

In 1969,
after Martin Luther King
was killed,
the school planted a smaller tree
in commemoration.
Everyone understood
he had died taking a risk,
for them.

The tree welcomed
the new lithe sapling,
fresh buds, young limbs.

A half century later,
times have changed.
The school welcomes all students.
But the tree,
never saw a difference
between one child and another —
all bright smiles, steady feet.

Today
I watch children
climbing the tree’s sturdy trunk,
resting on its limbs.

The tree has expanded —
vertically and horizontally.
Growth has slowed with age,
90 years is nothing to sneeze at!
But, the tree
remains resilient.

As children pour out
into the sparkling sunshine
for recess
I can almost see the tree
straighten up,
ready to greet them
with open arms.

**If you look closely at the photograph, you can see children climbing the base of the tree 😊

We humans roam the earth
loudly proclaiming our superiority.
Our conversations drown out
the chime of birdsong,
the chatter of squirrels,
the chorus of spring peepers.

Our discoveries seem monumental,
requiring broader horizons,
more land
more sea
more sky.

Yet,
under the current
of our incessant monologue
thrums a deeper conversation,
a conversation of trees, plants, fungi.

As humans decimate more land
acre by acre
the wood wide web
buzzes with hints for survival.

“Hurry, store moisture for the coming drought!
Absorb nutrients from the soil
while you still can.”

If a tree is suffering,
other trees will send
food for survival
through the network
of fungi and microbes
connecting them.

If only our human ears could hear
the desperate cries of plant species
soon to be endangered or extinct.

Alas,
the trees, plants, fungi
know better.
Humans cannot be trusted.

Honestly,
if we were welcomed to conversation
Would we change?

Our track record suggests
no.

**There are many wonderful books by thoughtful scientists, researchers and writers about the world of the Wood Wide Web. A few books to try: Lab Girl and The Story of More by Hope Jahren, Underland by Robert McFarlane, Entangled Life by Merlin Sheldrake, The Overstory by Richard Powers,

Newly married
my young parents,
rented a flounder house
in Old Town Alexandria.

Set back
behind a large stately home,
the low, narrow house
held two small bedrooms
one bath
a resident kitchen mouse
and nearly two hundred years of memory.

Built in the 1830s,
the rusty red brick house
had a dirt packed floor
just covered
before my parents moved in.

Their landlord, a widower,
offered the space
if my mother would help tend
to the large garden
in her spare time.
Mr. Shea and my father,
both lawyers of different generations,
had colleagues in common.

The best part,
besides the modest rent,
was the view.
Across the street
stood a large park sloping down
to the banks of the Potomac River.

I was a baby in this small house.
My mother,
now five years gone,
had the whole world in front of her.
I like to imagine her
walking out in the early morning,
coffee cup in hand,
scanning the river,
endless possibilities ahead.

Academically
at risk,
chronically absent,
incidents
of violence.

But, I ask
where
oh where
on this vast spreadsheet
is the child’s heartbeat?