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©2016-2018 by Pat Durmon, Poet. Proudly created with Wix.com

June 25, 2018

I look across the hayfield and see nothing but Queen Anne’s Lace, a field of wildflowers. Something is wrong here.

Instead of hay, we have white wildness.

It’s as if the flowers took the field by squatters’ rights.

I see some whiteness every year, but not here and certain...

June 18, 2018

I am sick.

It changes the routine of everyone.

Grandboys upstairs with games, husband rests on the sofa, grandgirl naps in a bedroom, me quiet in a recliner, dogs snooze on the floor.

Nothing is normal.

Any celebration for my husband’s birthday is postponed. And Father’s D...

June 11, 2018

Sister, you have been sick for weeks. Sicker than I’ve ever known you to be.

I keep looking back over my shoulder, remembering our youth and joy, what it was like for you and me. Now, you’ve been my sister for seven decades.

I wonder if I valued you then as much as I val...

June 4, 2018

I remember when working toward becoming a mental health counselor, I heard a professor say, “You can only go as deep with a client as you have been yourself. Be grateful for your wounds....”

At the time, of course, I’m never grateful.

Grateful comes later when I’m not tr...

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