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By Polly Buckingham For The Spokesman-Review When her daughter comes in wearing a mask, Margery thinks she’s dreaming. She thinks this isn’t the real world. The ghosts in the walls knock. The cockroaches fall out of the cupboards. “Listen, Dad. I really need you to come with us to the new house. It’s so big – you wouldn’t believe it – everyone can have their own space. We’re even having an air scrubber installed.” “I can’t,” Frank says. “I won’t.
Watch for more poetry celebrating the outdoors by local poets this month in Thursday Outdoors. For thousands of years, poets have written about the outdoors. Sometimes, they praise scenery and wildness; sometimes, they compare humanity to nature. Poets from Hesiod and Homer to Basho and Chaucer have found inspiration in flowers and mountains, trees and rivers; in English language poetry, William Wordsworth’s writing about nature is important.
Baby Michelle slept like a kitten against Sheila’s chest, Nick’s white crew hat completely covering her face so it was hard to tell she was anything other than part of the baby sack. Nick lifted the edge of the hat with his thumb, but all he saw was the hat’s arcing shadow; even her tiny red fists had disappeared into folds of cloth. “Hey there, Little Buddy.” “Stop calling her that,” Sheila said.
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