Poem: The Artist

 Your absence fills every inch of this space.

    It seeps between the floorboards,

    and crawls inside the cupboard

    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.

Winter Solstice, A Poem

My Photograph, taken in 2012

Winter Solstice

Come rest inside with me, my love,

the full moon wanes in the sky above,

The Wheel has turned, the night is long,

The Ancients chant a Solstice song,

Oh moon! Oh stars! Oh darkest night!

Make clear our thoughts, make clear our sight 

Release our hearts, release our minds,

from all that's passed, from all that binds.

Our sorrows dropped on shadow ground,

we'll walk away, not turn around,

We'll leave the past where it belongs,

in Earth's dark soil, to join the songs,

of all who lived and all who died, 

of all who loved and all who cried.

We're not the same, but we come from one,

Let's meet at dawn to greet the sun.

This poem is included in my published poetry collection,

The Brook in the Woods Behind Our Old House

Soon Now

Soon Now

Each morning, 

I poke my head 

out the front door to 

greet my garden

Good morning, I say,

We made it through the night!

You may laugh, but

it's not guaranteed

especially now, as November

nights grow chill, and there's a 

cold film on the morning grass

that reminds me that

Soon, soon, soon now,

I will step outside

to find my loves 

withered by a true frost

and I will reach down and

softly touch their wounded stems,

and thank them for sharing 

the journey, and whisper,

Soon, soon, soon now

we will both be hiding beneath quilts of 

cloth, or earth and snow, resting, and 

slowly, slowly gathering ourselves to bloom again

Are You My Mother

 This poem, about a visit to see my mother in the Alzheimer's Care unit, earned honors for the 2021 Vivian Shipley Award and the Prime 53 Poetry Competition. It's included in my poetry chapbook, The Brook in the Woods Behind Our Old House.

Are You My Mother?

 

They are already in the circle when I come in.

I spot her right off, tucked between two old ladies –

one’s perplexed gaze wandering the room, the other,

lost in another dimension. And Mom, alert, attentive, like

a well-behaved student awaiting the start of class.

 

An aide sidles up to me.

That’s my mother. I say her name.

She won’t know me. I just want to see her.

To watch for a while. Please. Don’t. Say. Anything.

It will upset her. (And me).

 

I sit beside an old nun; she reaches over and takes

my hand. Center stage, a different aide explains

the Plan for the Day. The one I spoke to, not

a moment ago, taps Mom’s shoulder from behind

and points. Loud whisper: That’s your daughter.

 

I cringe. At the words, the confused look on my mother’s

face, the white-hot pain searing my heart. All eyes on me

now – curious, suspicious. In this alternate dimension,

where long ago is the present, and the present is soon forgotten,

daughters are four-feet tall and eight years old.

 

When I was small, Mummy read aloud, Are You My Mother?

In which, the baby bird, fallen from the nest, wanders off,

asking this question of everyone it meets. Now Mom stares

at me intently, brow furrowed. My cheeks burn; pleading eyes ask,

Are you my mother?

 

She flashes a polite, awkward smile, like one you’d give

someone who accidentally bumped you, to show

there are no hard feelings, shakes her head and says,

just like the animals in the story,

I am not your mother.

 

I throw murderous eyes at the aide and force

a smile filled with gritted teeth. My voice piercing

the stillness sounds high and hollow:

Don’t mind her. She’s got it wrong.

Mercifully, someone asks, What’s for lunch?

 

The grace of short memory spans –

they all lose interest in me, and fast.

Shepherd’s Pie, the aide says.

Someone: What’s that?

The aide’s mouth opens, but

 

Mom’s voice is already in the air:

You don’t know what Shepherd’s Pie is?

I choke back a laugh. Now that sounds

like my mother.

Let me tell her!

 

And then, my mother, who does not know

that it’s fall, or that we’ve sold the house, or

that Daddy is just across the way in long-term care,

or that she once sailed down the Nile past

the Valley of the Kings, who does not know

 

that she is the mother of the gray-haired

woman sitting beside the nun, explains,

in a clear and dearly familiar voice,

and in exquisite detail, how to make

a Shepherd’s Pie.

Tea Time: A Poem

October is, among other things, Alzheimer's awareness month. It's also my birthday month, and this year I am turning 70. By the time she was 75, my mother already showed signs of Alzheimer's.

With this poem, I tried to capture, in a short and simple scene, and with the use of repetition, that moment when I first realized that something was wrong. 

Mom was a fabulous knitter who made the prettiest baby sweaters for the Christ Church holiday fair every year. Although she was born in New Jersey, Mom spent much of her childhood living in England, and her mother was Veddy, Veddy British. So four o'clock tea time was a daily ritual.

Tea Time

 Shall we have tea?

Your knitting needles quiver

like hummingbirds with woolly

yarn for wings

 

Shall we have tea?

I listen for the teapot’s whistle

from the kitchen, but

it never comes

 

Shall we have tea?

The old mantel clock keeps time

with the click-click-click of your

needles and I

see now that you

have been re-working

that same row

all afternoon.

Ocean Point: A Poem for Summer's End

 

This poem describes how I feel as summer wanes and August comes to a close.

I don't want it to end.

The place is Ocean Point in East Boothbay, Maine, another place in New England that I dearly love.

The poem first appeared in the online literary journal, The Traveling Bohemian, and is included in my poetry collection, The Brook in the Woods Behind Our Old House.

Ocean Point

These rocks in the late-day sun,

mica-marbled, ancient, and smooth

That rich seaweed smell after

yesterday's storm

Those children poking

at treasures in the tide pool

That lone sailboat

heading home

This moment,

when the tide turns

and the wind grows chill

I should be on my way

but still

I stay.

Return to Canterbury

Summer is the time for reading fun, and with July 4th approaching, now is a great time to read Return to Canterbury, the sequel to The Christmas Village. If you've read my books, then you know they aren't just for kids; they're for all ages (SHHHHH.....they're secretly for US!!) The books are available in paperback and e-book - perfect for beach reading, Click HERE to go to the book page on Amazon. 

And if you haven't read The Christmas Village yet, well, summer is a great time to read stories that take place at Christmas, so read that first!

Here's the storyline for Return to Canterbury:

Things have settled down for thirteen-year-old Jamie Reynolds since last Christmas. That’s when he time-traveled to 1932 and wound up in the town of Canterbury, Vermont, where he met Kelly and Christopher Pennysworth, who quickly became his best friends. Back in his own time again, he misses them every day. But as the July 4th holiday approaches, the mystery of what happened to his dad, who has been missing for almost a year, hovers like a black cloud over Jamie's life. Little does Jamie know that he will soon reunite with Kelly and Christopher for an adventure even bigger than their last. Together they’ll uncover a secret plot that threatens to destroy Canterbury. But will they be able to stop it before it’s too late? And will Jamie finally solve the mystery of his father’s disappearance? Return to Canterbury and find out!

May: Playing with Haiku

 

Memory lives on

after our loved ones are gone

always in our hearts

May: Playing with Haiku

 

How brave the saplings

that forged a pathway through stone

just to glimpse the sea

May: Playing with Haiku

 

Pink bougainvilla

cascades over balcony

like a waterfall

May: Playing with Haiku

 

Lotus flowers peek 

through green leaves on murky pond

Silent, peaceful, still

 

Nova Scotia

When the sun shines again

after many days of rain, everything

looks, feels, and smells fresh and new.

March: Day Twenty-five

Bass Harbor, Acadia National Park, Maine

I awaken to the sound of the birds

rustling in the bushes beneath 

my bedroom window, their 

chirps soft as a whisper.

Wake up, little ones, 

I imagine they are saying,

and in that moment, I include

myself in their family.

Sometimes - often - my first thoughts

upon awakening are fear for 

what the day might bring.

The sweet sounds of these little birds, 

well-hidden in the bush but

still vulnerable to all out there

that might do them harm, 

awakening nevertheless with

such sweet chatter, softens my fear, 

and I arise to greet the day with them. 

March: Day Eighteen

 

A garden is not just an arrangement of

flowers, it is a peek into the creative soul

of the gardener, their hopes and dreams

and what they loved.

March: Day Twelve

Dark Clouds over Sedona

September 2017

Often, I do not think that I am

up to what is being asked of me

So all I can do is keep going and 

do my best and sometimes

it's not very good but it's

all that I can do.

And surprisingly often, it

somehow turns out to be enough.

March: Day Nine

Cafe, Old Quebec City

Just enough

is all I need

enough work

enough play

enough to live on

and still be generous

enough time alone

and enough time with friends

enough fresh air 

and sunshine

enough sleep

and enough exercise 

enough coffee and croissants

just enough of everything

and not too much of

anything

Just enough

March: Day Five

Two days ago

I raked away the oak leaves

piled at the bottom of 

a small tree in the front yard

and today that little tree

has sprouted sweet

yellow blooms.

I do not know that I

can claim credit,

but secretly 

I do.

March: Day One

 

Bourne Farm

Whispers of Spring

A shift of light 

through branches bare

the difference slight

 yet surely there

The birdsong's cheer

 a bit more bright

the sky more clear,

the air feels light

I have no proof of anything,

yet, sure I'm not imagining

that Mother Earth is whispering,

Soon Spring

Soon Spring

Soon Spring