Yesterday was my 55^th wedding anniversary, the eighth one without Richard. I no longer anticipate sorrow or nostalgia on this day but remain open to whatever arises. Last week this poem came to me in remembrance of my newly widowed days.

Holding Hands- a True Story

I moved here as a widow where nobody knew who you were, who we were, or who we had been during even one of our almost fifty years together.

I began life all over as just me, by myself.

A year or so after you died, I lay in bed one night crying softly in a sudden lament,

“But I’ll never… get to hold your hand… again!”

The next day I sat on an observation deck overlooking a swampy pond. A sparkling blue dragonfly alighted on my hand. His multifaceted eyes took me in. His translucent wings rested quietly on his back.

We sat there, he and I, holding hands for a long time.

I have returned to that pond, Button Bush Pond, many times and never again has a swooping hungry dragonfly come near me. It was a lovely recollection, a healing gift from Nature’s bounty. We are all held every day by Gaia.

On the days predicted to be hot, I get outside as early as I can on my mobility scooter. Just before dawn, it is so quiet on this campus with hundreds of residents and staff. Even the noisy geese are inhabiting other ponds in the area. Only the croak of one resident duck couple and a few bullfrogs sounds me out as I roll by five of our other ponds. It has felt like the end of August already, with chilly dew-drenched mornings and hot swimming temperatures by afternoon. In the middle of last month, I saw my first monarch butterfly and heard the first evening cricket and buzzing night insects in the trees. The weather patterns have changed course as any times as our President’s erratic pronouncements.

As I keep reiterating here, I work to keep my heart open as a grounded witness to this rapidly evolving transformation of my country and the world.

I end with one of my predawn poems with my photo.

Venus in the Morning

Venus makes lovelight to the waning half moon

Tress silhouette against the rising glow

A breeze tickles whispering leaves

Wildflowers dance on the hill

One bird, ten birds sing the

miracle of dawn