Poem: The Artist

 Your absence fills every inch of this space.

    It seeps between the floorboards,

    and crawls inside the cupboards

    where your favorite Rooster mug sits idle,

    and into the fridge, where a half-empty

    bottle of root beer patiently waits,

    and the drawer where we kept your pills,

    and the basket of socks on the closet shelf,

    and the wooden box on the dresser that holds

    your treasures - a class ring, an old watch, 

    a few foreign coins, and the bola tie you

    bought at Monument Valley.

    And especially, it hovers in the

    hallway cubby where you sat daily

    and silently shared your heart, 

    bringing beauty to life as if from nothing,

    your hand swirling smoothly 

    over canvas and paper.

    And where now, 

    morning sunlight crosses your easel 

    and the table with its clutter 

    of paint tubes, and brushes, and palette knives, 

    all poised and ready for your return,

    and I do not have the heart to tell them

    that they, like me, will never feel 

    the warmth of your hand again.    

Walking at Bourne Farm in Winter

Bourne Farm is one of my favorite places to walk in winter. I wrote the poem shared below after a January walk there two years ago. The stark beauty of the place made me think of Robert Frost poetry, and as I walked, the first lines of a poem began to form in my mind. Afterward, I challenged myself to write a poem in the Frost style, which meant rhyming and with a particular cadence. This is the poem that came out of that exercise, along with some photographs I took while walking at Bourne Farm today, another cold but beautiful January day.

Bourne Farm, Falmouth, Massachusetts

January 5, 2026

Walking at Bourne Farm in Winter

by Melissa Ann Goodwin

I'm not by far the first to tread

the Bourne Farm field this winter's day.

Footprints tattoo the snowy bed

as proof of those who passed this way.

In summer, green with happy vines,

this field now thatch beneath the snow.

In autumn, ripe with pumpkins fine,

but now, no traces does it show.

Where once an orchard bloomed in May

and bore its fruit in autumn's glow,

now just six twisted trees remain

to guard the murky pond below.

Their gnarled limbs tangle, curve, and bend,

against the clearest of blue skies.

They feel like old familiar friends:

steadfast, unflinching, stalwart, wise.

Such life these fields and trees have known!

Soil tilled, harvests reaped, seasons turned.

And those like me, who walk alone,

each one a life whose soul has yearned

to feel this sun upon their face,

to let the earth erase their fear,

to ask forgiveness and for grace,

to know it matters they were here.

Vacancy

Bourne Farm, Falmouth, Massachusetts

January 5, 2026

Bourne Farm, Falmouth, Massachusetts

January 5, 2026

A New Year Begins

 

new day

new year.

be they far

or be they near,

be they gone

or be they here,

hold your

true loves dear

                                The glass snowflake is one of four glass molds 

                                with a winter/Christmas theme that Mom treasured.

                                We got snow overnight to start the new year,

                                 but it's not much, and I don't think it will last.