By Patricia Wellingham-Jones

It’s been that kind of dreadful week.
Nothing, of course,
compared to the blood
soaking Iraqi sand,
bodies tumbled from Twin Towers,
the slaughter in our streets.

Just an old poet
who lived out
her useful time.
Still, the death of my friend
diminishes me.

Bare-handed I grub
in the garden, tuck zinnias
in an empty space,
remove spent blooms
from the purple butterfly bush,
prune, water and weed.

Rubbing tears with earth-
stained fingers off cheeks
red from too much sun
I find comfort in
dirt to dirt.



Patricia Wellingham-Jones, former psychology researcher/writer/editor, has been published in journals, newspapers, anthologies, and online. Her most recent books are Don’t Turn Away: Poems About Breast Cancer, Labyrinth: Poems & Prose, Apple Blossoms at Eye Level and Lummox Press Little Red Book series, A Gathering Glance. She lives in northern California.



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