I wanted him to live to be one hundred even though his readings had stopped years ago. Who am I to judge how long a man should live? Or how his living, his writing, his teaching helped my life. I was just a woman in his workshop at Centrum learning as much as I could.
He would take his class on writing walks. One day on a beach hike, we stood together and watched a fish die in the sand. Another day, we sat with an old stump that had once held up something magnificent. We translated Francis Ponge, “the poet of things”, and looked deeply into an orange.
seasons come and go
left alone to find my way
sad hearing the rain
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dVerse prompt to write a haibun on something or someone to be thankful for
Beautiful tribute in writing..
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Often in retrospect we contemplate the moments in our lives that stay with us in memory. This is a beautiful write.
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Francis Ponge’s writing is fascinating. ❤
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Wow, Jane. What a privilege you had!
❤
David
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Feeking waves of wistful envy and letting them break gently on my shore. Glad for you, so glad Jane, to have stood in the company of such a teacher
This post says so much about lovely you ❤ Kathy
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