Tag Archives: Buson

Age 19

Oh, ode to June in all her lovely greenery. Remember being 19-years-old? Remember desire, desire, desire? The summer river. It’s happy to walk across it. My hands with zori sandal. —Buson

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Sign of Spring, Hardwick, VT #9

Come what may — more April snowflakes, cold rain, glittery frost in the weeds against the barn — in our corner of Vermont we’ve stepped across the line to spring. Yesterday, in a chilly rain, my daughters and I peered … Continue reading

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Hardwick, VT, Sign of Spring #6

…. kid skis on snow and field. Easter afternoon, we skied on snow slushy in open areas, in the woods icy and pine-needle-strewn, pausing to breathe after the vigorous workout. Little streams ran along the trail. My friend remarked on … Continue reading

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Monday Morning Good Things

This morning, I step out on the back porch to say, Goodbye, have a nice day to my 12-year-old as she walks to school. I lift my voice a little and add, Feels like March and spring! By way of answering, she raises one hand, … Continue reading

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Winter’s Grass-Is-Greener

Driving down the Woodbury gulf in the twilight, staring at the road — snow-crusted, ice packed, with two curving black lines of asphalt worn through winter — I remember all those years of driving mountainous Route 9 in southern Vermont … Continue reading

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Winter’s Wow Factor

Checking to see a child arrived home last night, I drive around a hillside — the cemetery hillside — and my daughter says, Whoa, under her breath, with not a tinge of 12-year-old sarcasm. Just wonder. Feral, the ebbing, ravenous wolf … Continue reading

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Heart in the Hand

When my husband and I bought our first house, I intended to live there forever, unpack my two cast iron skillets, have a couple of kids, dig a vast garden, and stay. Then there’s that Robert Burns’ line John Steinbeck … Continue reading

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