The poet sister sat in the 80-year old ash’s nooks and wrote poems.
Her artist sister was below the sprawling dark limbs and
full leafed green sketching.
Their mother was inside.
Their dad was working.
The dad died.
And now, right past that ash, the sisters will guide their
mother to a car, To drive her to an assisted living facility –
How smooth those words – An assisted living facility ….
Not for the poet’s notebook.
Not for the artist’s sketchbook.
Later, though, the tree for both ….
Eugene “Gene” Novogordsky, early summer 2014