Warming up a bit, the long, bitter, and deep cold easing. More melting, less chilled bones.

Ian McRae is both a friend and a symbol of the passage of life, which constantly moves more quickly than we think it does. Ian came to dinner last night; we stayed in touch. He is a friend now, an adult and a poet, not a teenager searching for support and direction. He does that for himself now, and we can enjoy each other’s company. Ian is not just a kid who is early to be a poet; he is a poet, and when I look at him across the dining table, I no longer see a kid but a man increasingly at peace with himself. Ian is 25 years old now; I thought he was younger. I remember looking at my daughter one night and realizing she was no longer a child. Ian is no longer a kid.

Windowsill gallery, living room.

I found this in an antique store and bought it right away. It became the logo of our blogs and lives and hangs on the back porch. This is us, our life, our story, our home.