Really There is no other choice

Some not-quite-as-random-as-they-seem facts:

• Once the SOLSC was over, I knew I wanted to keep slicing on Tuesdays
• I have an old notebook and a tattered folder with some bits and pieces of old writing
• Last night, the BONS were together--eating, laughing, telling stories, and sharing writing
• The BONS know there is poetry hidden here and there in the notebook and folder
• It's Poetry Month

So really, there is no other choice. I'm feeling nudged (pushed, pulled, encouraged, called--you pick) to pull out a couple of the poems and put them here. Where you can see them. 

To the BONS: I'm holding you all personally responsible for this!

This one was first written in spring of 2003, though it's about a fall tradition.

Round the bend

at the top of the hill,

smoke curls over the barn

where family history is made.

Cars standing,

head toward the wind

like cattle shoulder to shoulder

in the pasture.

Familiar faces

appear distorted,

like looking into an old mirror;

it happened so quickly.

Approaching slowly,

reconnecting with nods

and picking up

year-old conversations.

Rich tradition

sticks across generations;

through change, much stays the same

as the family story goes on.