March 17, 2016


There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools, singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,

Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.

-Sara Teasdale

/spring

January 18, 2016

October 25, 2015

autumn 2015.


The leaves are falling from the oak and maple trees in the backyard. They dance their way down to our feet. Leif stomps on the crisp leaves and laughs — Mommy! Crunchy, crunchy!

While I close up the garden he fills the feeders and calls out to the birds — Common Chickadee! Cardinal! Wren! Common Bluejay! Common Woodpecker! 

It is a beautiful bright autumn day. The colours are bursting red and gold and brown. It looks like an oil painting.

I stand under the tall oak, the leaves drifting and spiralling in the wind, and I think about seasons and time and him and you.

I think about you.

Always, my love.

September 29, 2015



Grateful he gets to live his L i f e.

Our beloved, lucky, second son, L e i f.




September 19, 2015



In a few short months, he will turn 3 years old.

It's my favourite thing in the whole world watching him grow up.




August 30, 2015



"Mommy come here!"

"Bird! It dead!"

We crouch over a bird lying in the grass. Its wings are spread open. I wave my hand to shoo away the flies.

"What kind?" Leif asks. I tell him it looks like a finch and we continue to study the little brown bird. I turn it over and notice a puncture wound on the side of its head.

Leif points to the yellow colour in the tip of its tail. "It beautiful!" he says.

We dig a hole and bury the bird under a honey-locust tree behind our house. Leif picks up a nearby pinecone and says he wants to put it on top. He places it gently on the small pile of earth.

"It needs one more thing," I tell him and we go to the garden. I pick two sprigs of lavender and lay them next to the pinecone.

We stand over the grave and Leif gives it one last pat with his shovel. "Goodbye bird," he says.

/photo here

August 21, 2015

for liam.
































Mount Mansfield, Vermont

/Blood