Every February
as the calendar rolls toward March
my dear friend Sally
arrives at my classroom door
with a calendar and a set of orange stickers.

The gesture is a simple one:
“I want you to write”
Sally is saying.

There is one sticker for each day of the March
Slice of Life Story Challenge.
The ritual is 7 or 8 years old.
It is so satisfying seeing sticker after sticker
pile up with each published slice.

However,
Sally may not realize
there is a deeper strength
to the little orange dots.

Each sticker is a reminder that someone
wants to read my words, hear my voice.

When I think about the power of acknowledgment,
I recommit to give every student
words of recognition,
time to express themselves,
a platform to shout their words into existence.

Thank you Sally
for my dots
for your steadfast friendship
for the gentle nudge
to keep speaking up.

Against the expanse
of a cerulean sky,
the massive oak
stands unintimidated.

Limbs stretch up and out
as if waking,
the tree wears its years proudly.
Scars from a long ago summer storm
mark branches
shortened in life.

Yet,
this giant holds firm to the land,
steadfast through civil war,
human encroachment
and the ravages of too hot summers.

Now,
the majesty of this gem
is easily missed by whizzing cars,
preoccupied people.

But,
the birds appreciate
the solid branches.
Foxes rest under the broad canopy.
Owls survey terra firma
from up high
in search of a nightly meal.

The best way to appreciate the power of this oak
is to come upon it by surprise.

Walking in the early hours,
I stop dead in my tracks.

Craning my neck
up
up
up
I am speechless.

“Ah, yes”
the mighty oak
seems to say
into the quiet.
“Now you understand.”

Washington, D.C,
began as ten square miles
mapped out meticulously
by surveyors in 1791.

Markers placed
on both sides of the Potomac River,
carved out the city
from Maryland and Virginia.

Walking in Jones Point Park
this morning,
I stood on Alexandria’s river bank
looking down the wide Potomac
wondering what the land lost
when we began carving it up?

Beavers, foxes, osprey
still inhabit the shores.
But what of the Piscataway,
who fished and farmed
with great respect
for the land?

What did those first surveyors see
standing firmly on the shore?

Beauty that should remain untouched?
Or land ripe for “progress”?

When I was ten,
we got a new neighbor.
My mother believed
In the tradition of welcoming.

We baked cookies,
made a card
and headed across the lawn —
my sister and I in ragged shorts,
my mother in a pretty skirt and apron.

When the door opened,
there
stood
Gloria Steinem,
the symbol of women’s liberation.

My mother blushed in her homemaker attire.

But you see,
my mother was her own trailblazer.
At twenty-one,
she went to Bonn, Germany alone
to work for the state department.
She aided delegate Marietta Tree at the UN,
she was an administrative assistant
for Sarge Shriver
when he launched the Peace Corps.

My mother never waivered
when it came to welcoming neighbors.
She was proud of her welcome
for Ms. Steinem and Mr. Pottinger.

My mother’s lesson
about good neighbors
is paramount today.
How we treat our neighbors
says volumes about
who we are.

Were she living,
my mother would be appalled
at America today.

Brick row houses
stand sentry
along cobbled streets
in Old Town Alexandria.

My dogs and I
are acclimating
to our new neighborhood
in the quiet hours.

A steady flowing river
laps at the nearby shore
while darkness coats
the predawn sky in
inky black.

We are utterly alone.

It is with some surprise then
that we spy movement ahead.

There!
Darting along the sidewalk
are two young foxes
searching for breakfast,
such a welcome sight!

The sleek pair
raise their heads and freeze.

My dogs and I,
unwelcome interlopers.

Ears flattened and tails straight,
the red foxes
stand at equal height
to my pair of pups.

Before long
the foxes drop their heads,
setting off down the street.
Yet, this pair does not slink.

Rather,
the two trot boldly
down the center of the street,
coming in and out of focus
with each pool of street light.

As we turn for home
I smile —
the neighborhood seems larger,
more welcoming now.
A bright sign
in a new year.

In the garden,
pruning is essential
to foster healthy growth.

Pruning is the
deliberate
meticulous
extraction of dead matter.

Yet,
sometimes
pruning is dangerous.

When those holding the shears
cut indiscriminately,
without understanding
the delicate balance
between growth
and root system.

Cutting too much
can reduce
photosynthetic capacity —
starving the plant,
stressing the whole.

Today’s gardeners
are cutting with abandon.
the question remains:
will the plant survive?

When we were small,
my grandfather
would occasionally announce
“today seems like a good day
for a mystery trip!”

The breakfast table erupted,
a chaos of conversation as
questions flew like darts —
Will we drive?
Is it far?
Are animals involved?
What gear might we need?
Will we be back before
lunch?
dusk?
dinner?

My grandfather beamed,
exactly the reaction he relished.

Sometimes
we waded into a brackish cranberry bog,
or dug our toes in sand
searching for clams.
We might visit a pale barn owl
at a rescue center
or explore an old iron forge.

My grandparents believed
extraordinary
was all around,
if only we adjusted
our perspective.

** The framed poster accompanying this post includes a photograph my grandfather took in the New Jersey Pine Barrens. He and my grandmother were founding members of the New Jersey Conservation Foundation. They dedicated their time and energy to the preservation of the Pine Barrens — the largest pine preserve on the Atlantic coast encompassing more than 1.1 million acres.

Under downy snow
rest the gentle tendrils
of spring unfurling.
Promises etched on fresh petals,
Nature’s true benevolence.

*This poem is a tanka. The form consists of five lines (5, 7, 5, 7, 7 syllables). According to Poets.org:
One of the oldest Japanese forms, tanka originated in the seventh century, and quickly became the preferred verse form not only in the Japanese Imperial Court, where nobles competed in tanka contests, but for women and men engaged in courtship. The tanka’s economy and suitability for emotional expression made it ideal for intimate communication; lovers would often, after an evening spent together (often clandestinely), dash off a tanka to give to the other the next morning as a gift of gratitude.

In elementary school
we were marched
in orderly lines
to the cafeteria.

Waiting patiently,
we eyed the school nurse
who bore a tray of
pristine white sugar cubes,
neatly arranged in rows.

Each perfectly formed square
held at its center
three drops
of a medical miracle.

To us children,
the sugar cubes
were a sweet treat,
a distraction from
everyday lessons.

To the adults,
the grainy, porous squares
promised hope.

Hope to avoid
the crippling effects
of polio,
a disease that left
my grandfather with
weakened legs, cramped fingers.

Hope that each tiny cube
brought steady, easy breathing
outside the grasp
of an iron lung.

I will always remember fondly
the distraction,
the communal gathering
of children sucking happily
on the sweetness
that masked progress
in a cube.