I Write These Things

The Calico Cottage had a white picket fence And a trellis that grew roses red A patch of green grass held a table set with tea Over by the wild flower bed. And there in my chair As I sip on my tea With pen and journal I write Soft breezes blowing, flowers growing A feast to my taste and my sight. Spending time in God's garden Peaceful beauty around What better thing could I do? Except pour one more cup And share one more plate And spend it dear friend with you. Linda Dodson 2

The first cold, harsh winds blew in November, showing up like an early unwanted guest arriving too soon. Those icy, cold days were the bleakest with not a glimpse of sun to warm our faces. Not a powdery snow which softly blanketed the ground. No. It was not to be. But instead a cold, hard ice that would not even grace us a footprint. Bravery was trudging to the mailbox and expecting to hear the crunch of the grass under my feet. Our grass instead rendered no sound, just

Pulling from the poetry vault of my earlier years. I wrote this poem at 17 while just hanging out at the Walter Hill dam. It was published on the cover of the Senior Issue of The Liberty Bell, (Oakland High School's newspaper) my senior year, 1977. When we were little, I remember going to the river with Mamma, Aunt Louise and Grandmother and Grandaddy for picnics in the 60s. Reflections I sit here and I watch the rolling river I see the sky of blue above my head The birds a