In the meadow …

I’ve started several dozen journals. Some had beautiful fabric covers, with linen pages and some were as basic as yellow legal pads.  

Cute little bound books with kittens and puppies curled up in baskets, floral designs, fine art reproductions or plain black leather. 

The best journal books were gifts from other women wanting to show their support for my dreams.   

One night after a long day of rolling in leaves in the park, I wrote this  in my journal while they slept.

To my children:  

October, 1976

I thought to go to a meadow
And pick wild flowers for the children 

Ah, where to find an open meadow
With wild flowers in Brooklyn? 

Where to collect the assortment
As pretty as the one they gather
Daily for me ?

 They came home with autumn leaves
Pressed inside their hands

Yet another treasure to be placed
With baseball cards and gum stickers
With chewed crayons and torn
Doll clothes and doll heads
That roll in the hall

I sort their collection of rocks
And chunks of cement splashed
With water colors glued to table tops 

Oh, they clutched the leaves tightly
Laughing as they tore off coats and hats
And long into the evening the sweet burnt scent
Floated about the rooms
Mixing with child scents 

I thought to go to a meadow
Gathering the colors for them alone
And surveyed the avenue outside
The window
Smiling at concrete and asphalt
And lamps lit high 

Where to find a meadow
With wild flowers
In Brooklyn?


I am fOIS In The City 


 Flickr photo here.



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