Farewell, Godspeed.

 This is my last posting from Christine in the Shire where all the postings began. It is fitting it is November, the month I moved to a chilly basement, in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. The movers who brought my boxes and sofabed from Eureka, California looked around and asked, "You gonna live...?" They didn't even finish the sentence. They didn't know what the faeries of my imagination would do to a concrete floor and leftover furniture. Voila! It became a magical hobbit hole which I release with much reluctance and great affection. 

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

THE SHIRE, PACKED UP

I am dazed by the loss.

Where in the five stages

of grief is such an unknown country

devoid of whimsey and elegance located?

The people who will soon inhabit,

conquer, change what to them

will be a substantial, freshened house

with a view of deep woods

and creek, what will they care about?

Will they sense the Ring connection

(Wagner, Tolkien)? the laughter?

the dire straits?

I hope for children.

 I hope for an evergreen

on the deck lasting from December

through February decorated with

generous peanut butter pine cones. 

And heirloom miniature ornaments?

I hope for large dogs and small cats.

I hope Honor's ashes find

a peaceful rest in misty Portland,
city of roses,
  but here in the front yard of Fairoaks Circle

my unlikely landlady's shamrocks

will grow jubilantly, riotously year after year
after year. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...may the blessings of departures and arrivals be yours...     

Guest Editor

When I was down in the Shire packing up my souvenirs, I came upon a poem Lucille had written to me. She was a law book editor and witty essayist. I asked her once to be a guest editor on the blob but she laughed that idea away. However, now that she doesn't have a say-so, I want her to be my guest. I'm certain if she decides to haunt me over this act of defiance, it will be in a delightfully Irish way. 

Just Desserts

This is not your birthday cake.
If you celebrated birthdays,
it would be your birthday cake.
But, since you do not celebrate
OCCASIONS, it is not your cake.
Besides, today is not your birthday.

It is my birthday cake,
or it would be, except that today
is not my birthday, either.
My birthday is next week,
when you will not be here.

Today is not the birthday of anyone
who lives in this house.
If we eat the cake tonight,
it will not be a birthday cake.

It will just be our desserts,
yours and mine.
Cake and frosting.

Billy Collins*

*O.K. Billy Collins did not write this poem.

And it is not actually a poem.

If I were Billy Collins, I would write

a poem for your birthday. Maybe.

I do not know if you even like Billy Collins.

Maybe he will write a poem for my birthday?

I do know that birthdays deserve celebration,

and you deserve poetry and cake and all things good. **

**The best I could do between the time I got home and the time your feet hit the stairs.~~H.

Honor Cunane