September 4th, 2017


"In the strangest of places..."

I pulled my old copy of Virginia Woolfe's book, "Mrs. Dalloway" from the shelf and watched as two pieces of paper fluttered to the floor.

Curious,  I retrieved them, and found an untitled poem written over 30 years ago.

The fishcatcher's voices move above the water
Dropping verbs
That unattended
Dance across the ripples
Leaving songs upon the water.

The fish move through the darkness
Scattering questions
That silenced
Evaporate into the sky
Making clouds float to the horizon.

The fishcatcher's voices echo cross the bridge
Throwing hints
That freed
Scatter the clouds
Opening the watchers to possibilities.

I remember the day I wrote those words. The sun was warm, the breeze cool, and autumn sat upon the trees lightly. Younger versions of my friends and me, climbed on the rocks and dangled our feet in the water that flows beneath the old covered bridge. A good day.

The other much smaller bit of paper is a rubbing made at the Viet Nam memorial marking the spot dedicated to my cousin. I haven't been in D.C. since '86. I wonder why this isn't filed with all my other genealogical info. I start to think about that war but shove the thoughts back, I don't need to go there.

I wonder how these disparate bits from the past became bookmarks.

It's fun and interesting to me to discover stuff that makes  me wonder.