While waiting for our order of Thai food Sue took out a slim book— In My Fashion, "My mother's poetry, she said.
I didn't have time to look at the book before the dishes arrived and we all started to eat and talk.
Later on Sue told me that her mother—Helen Hudson Motulsky, at the age of sixty , joined a writing group, attended writing and poetry workshops, and eventually "became an adjunct writing teacher at Danville Area Community College."
She continued to write poems for the next twenty-six years. Her topics ranged from "Dishes and the Working Wife" How do you write/ about dirty dishes? to contemplation of Burial Places.
These bones grown old
could go home again,
could find a spot under the maples
in that unfenced ground.
I would know again
the people of my childhood,
names carved now in granite:
parents, friends, neighbors,
Their places would form for me
a new map of my small hometown;
their names read from tombstones
my litany of love for all the years.
Havre de Grace, Maryland
From its stone wall on the hill
I saw the Susquehanna as it flowed
into Chesapeake Bay.
I was young and half a continent
from home, a harsher land.
The wide water, arching bridge,
soft hills beyond soothed me then
when the world was at war.
I could be content there,
a dear friend near by,
the river moving through time,
the solace of hills.
I could rest here
above the season-reflecting lake,
my lodestar now for many years.
The spirit of my gentle beagle
would keep me company along the bluff,
in deep snow, among wildflowers,
when dry leaves rustle underfoot.
I would be sheltered by tall trees,
new-green, full-leaved, autumn-turned,
framed by ancient cedars.
The fishermen would not disturb me.