The GRASS is tall, signs of neglect and carelessness everywhere. We start to THROW things into piles. I am grateful for the help. Cleaning up after death is never easy. We sort some more, finding letters that will now never receive a REPLY, a postcard of a Greek sponge DIVER from Tarpon Springs. We reminisce about Christmas cookies and birthday cakes when we uncover the ancient MIXER that we all used while growing up. It is strange to dig into this debris, like some sort of MINER of the past, going ever deeper into layers that made up a life.

Georg’ann

Which ROUTE to take?
A DIVER, exploring the depths
or HIKER, seeking new pathways.
FIBER of my being stretched.
These are thoughts as I lick
the MIXER blades.
On the radio an interview
with the widow of a coal MINER.
How strange these threads.

Heather