The following poem was written in response to a beautiful stain glass mosaic by artist Kristin Dieng. Letting Go©Gail Lipe Standing on a hillalone, but not alone,supported, strengthenedby the trees around me. So small, insignificantin this spaceI witness the beautyas trees gift their leaves to the changing seasons,letting go of yesterday.Memories, good and bad,betrayal and burdens, beg to let go of meas I hold tight, afraidthey will be gone forever,of losing a part of me. A crack in my resolve,one squeaks out, then another,and another, and another.I begin to let go of yesterday. Memories float awayas beautiful spirals and snowflakes.I…

©Gail Lipe Water droplet imprintson my glassesThe sky swollen withdark gray cloudsI smileInside my heart dancesas mist washes awaythe drabnessand consistencyof life The slats sighresistanceas I step ontothe boardwalkRipples on the lakeslap each otheras they run awayfrom raindrops Drought exposedthick, soft mucklines the bankColorful leaves createunderwater paintings A mallard and his mateswim closerthen awaythen closerlooking for food,unable to decide ifI am a threat A small muskratswims away fromthe silt plumecreated by the springrushing to feedthe bathtub lake,a hollow fallen treehis home Unexpected pleasureamidst the busyAccepting the giftI stop

11/4/2022 ©Gail Lipe I was at a reading last night in which the author posed a question asking if the land speaks to you. It is amazing how much outside speaks to me! The following poem speaks of a time where the wilderness felt like home. Home Silence,my purposeful steps on the trailthe only sound,meadow on one side,the river on the other.A small golden doestands between me and the river,neck extended,ears propped at attention,assessing.Deciding I am a threatshe lopes off.Stepping into the forestthe breeze whispersthrough the trees.Grandfather Oakstretches his arms above mesheltering me withhis strength.Looking upblue sky peeks throughgnarled fingerssplattered…

August 20, 2022 I read the following poem at a reading recently. It was written as I sat with my mother in the last year of her life. We sit in silence holding hands, one ancient, one old. She asks about me. I talk about work. “I love pickled liver.” “What made you think of pickled liver?” “I thought that’s what you said.” I stop talking. Linear conversation is hard. I am old. She is my mother, residing between reality and a world within her, hearing things that are not said, believing things that are not meant. She is dying,…

April 15, 2022 Words flow from deep inside like an ebbing tide leaving its writing in the sand They share the story of the life floundering within crying out someone hear me know that I am here

©Gail LipeShe walks down the streetoblivious to her surroundings,flower petals grab at herfrom the red blanket under her feet, unable to get her attentionfrom the day’s missionsconsuming her mind.The cascading flower budsin the unlikely treehave become partof her familiar environment,a detail disappearing into the fabric of her life.Not long ago,when she was new to this place,she would have stoppedto admire the beautyand complexity of the flowers in the tree.Where does that awe and curiosity gowhen familiarity moves in?Why do we wait for something to changebefore we slow downand notice the details?