When my friend and fellow writer Margaret Simon of New Iberia, Louisiana invited me to the Fay B. Kaigler Children’s Festival in Hattiesburg, Mississippi in April to present a poetry writing workshop with her, I eagerly accepted the invitation and began planning the trip. Since it was during my spring break, it made taking the time away much less challenging. Even though I wasn’t able to stay for the entire festival, I enjoyed some time with Margaret – especially our time together in our VRBO as we wrote together and shared the experience as tea drinkers. (You’ll see how Emily Dickinson joined us in a photo at the bottom of this post).
During the month of April, we were both writing daily for #VerseLove2025, so we used the day’s prompt by Joanne Emery, also a writer with Slice of Life, to create poems inspired by looking closely at things around us – particularly things in nature. You can read Joanne’s poem below, used here with her permission.
No Longer
Every year, for twenty years
we came here,
to this house –
two-story brick
sitting stately on a hill
surrounded by elms and maples,
slate blue doors and shutters.
We came to love this house
because we loved
the two people inside
and loved them more
as they aged –
Silver-haired and stooping
but always moving,
always answering the door
with open arms,
and open hearts
in every season:
Magnolias bloomed
fragrant in summer.
In fall, elms showered yellow
leaves onto the rooftop.
A dusting of snow frosted
the windows in winter.
The pear trees’ white blossoms
were the first sign of spring.
The seasons rolled one onto another
so imperceptibly we didn’t even notice.
Gradually, the stairs became harder to climb.
the television was harder to hear,
vials of medicine lined the kitchen counter,
important phone numbers were listed on the frig.
Now, when we came,
the house sat a little lower.
We watched a little more closely.
stayed a little longer.
listened a little better,
opened our arms and hearts
just a little wider
to keep the memories
and the two inside close.
But the seasons rolled on
and the two are now gone
and the house we loved
Still sits on the hill
but we can no longer return..
-Joanne Emery
Margaret’s poem:
(Margaret took a striking line from Joy Harjo’s poem to write a Golden Shovel poem about her friend’s butterfly garden).Â
Mary’s Invitation
In her garden, there’s
salvia, swamp milkweed, that
purple one
I forgot the name of: you
watch a swallowtail circle
tall parsley flowers, back
around to
orange pincushion pistils on a coneflower
for a taste of home.
-Margaret Simon
My poem:
Hello from Heaven
two days ago
passing through
Greenville, Alabama
I noticed a mural~
Alabama’s Camellia City
fuchsia petals
and yellow anthers
adorning the corners
and thought of
my mother, who loved them
yesterday
in Hattiesburg, Mississippi
I drove past a camellia
bush of these exact colors
and thought again of
my mother, who loved them
this gentle wave from Heaven
to remind me of her
sent me on a quest
to discover more about
the Japan rose
which symbolizes
advancing women’s rights
and is used to make tea
and food seasoning
and to protect the blades
of sharp cutting instruments ~
interesting, but where is the
message from Heaven?
my brother will be at
The Masters, where the
10th Hole is The Camellia Hole
so I will tell him to look for a
sign from our mother there
and perhaps, just perhaps
he’ll see a
Freedom Bell or
Cornish Show, Inspiration,
Royalty, or a Spring Festival
maybe my own message is
here, now, ~ in To Kill a
Mockingbird, Jem destroys
Mrs. Dubose’s garden when
she insults his family but is
later given a bud from the
dying woman who struggled
to overcome her
morphine addiction
and perhaps, just perhaps
this camellia wave is
every assurance that
forgiveness of others
is the work my heart
needs to do
and perhaps, just perhaps
I’ll plant a camellia this spring
to welcome more
hellos from Heaven from
my mother, who loved them
I glance up at the coffee table
in the VRBO where I’m staying
and notice a decorative box
I hadn’t noticed before now
gold-outlined camellias
as if my mother has been
sitting with me as I write this poem
and perhaps, just perhaps
she has
- – Kim Johnson
Common Threads 