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Mary Frederick Ahearn

September 11

years of mornings ago
bodies became birds
when blue turned black

A week of too many anniversaries, the eve of the eleventh the last one, led to a bad night, sleeping at first, then awake in the dark hours. Finally, a bit of restless sleep at dawn, just deep enough for dreaming. In that place, surrounded by strangers, a person who seemed to be me, was given a pottery bowl. A gift for no occasion from a friend with no face. The bowl, rough, homemade, and beautiful, was the color of cobalt and stone. Irregular in shape, yet of great refinement, it fit my open hand perfectly. It was of the sky, of the earth. From the fire of the kiln, born again. Alive.

today's work
to feel the sorrow
of gratitude

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About the Author

Mary Frederick Ahearn lives in Pottstown, Pennsylvania. “Writing is a great joy to me, and with it, the interaction with wonderful poets from all over the world. Reading, photography, and being out in the natural world are delights and solace for this introverted soul.”