My beautiful friend Leona Link
Has those eyes of blue
That smile and glint —
She sleeps alone
Since her husband died —
His funeral was three years ago
On my birthday —
And she lost her only daughter
(She has three sons nearby)
And she still cooks lunch for her youngest
Down the street
From where eye live
On the road named Atwood’s Road
Lives Mrs. Atwood
With her family gone —
She talks of the cellar hole
On the hill by the shore
And how ANYONE could build
There, right up from the foundation.
Once a man from England
Brought me a cup of tea
As I woke in a farmer’s guest bed
And I wrote the Englishman’s wife
A letter upon his sudden death
In a head on collision
Telling her nothing happened
Where did the onion
In all its variety
Come from?
In all its layers
With paper, paper protection
Where and how did our sublime
Fruit
Originate?
Answer: It has always existed
And always will
In one form or another
Joanna Gilman Hyde 