Family Lore

Were we to scramble up the crumbling steps
Of the red-shingled cottage by the sea
Smelling of salt and rain, and hollowed by moor cold
The peat moss with soft bulbous heads
Spread sleeping on the stone, a cushion for a mouse
And our bare toes, wrinkled by the long trek —
We would hear the rustling of the wind
Against the battered shutters left ajar
Abandoned like thieves in the dark
The luminescence of memories casting a wan glow
On nights spent gnawing on leather
And pulling spuds dark as stone from the ground
Handed down by a grandfather that never spoke
But did in the grimness of his lips
A history we dared to romanticize

Strangers on the Same Road

All people have gaps in their knowledge
But usually attribute that ignorance to others
And think that they, themselves, cannot be understood
But once they realize we are all similar
In our permutations of differences
They also realize those voids are meant to be filled
By the meeting of others