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JUST ONE MORE HAND
My parents, well my father,always felt is was necessaryto stop on the way to our summer homein the Western Adirondacksto visit Uncle Morris, who mayor may not have been an unclein the blood sense, it was never clear.It was he who sold my father the cottagenear the small lake, he who nowlived in a nursing…
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STARING
He liked nothing betterthen to sit outsidehis small cottageand stare into the pondonce the blaze on the waterset by the sun was consumedas fire must always be by water.As night deepened, he staredinto the sky, seeing the moonslowly rise, chasing alongthe sun’s now deserted path.He knew the myriad of starsshared his interest, staringbut he abandoned…
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an old writer and his words 