i remember. a poem.

i remember

the wonder of not knowing 

people see me,

 bike riding to the village without

a care, because everything 

then was good.

maybe that’s the hardest part of watching

my sons grow up. Now

they’ll realize they have to be

careful. because the world is


and it does not understand.

Oh say can you see…

At 29, Mary Young Pickersgill couldn’t have imagined the impact of the stitches she pulled through the stiff canvas fabric. She hadn’t been a widow long when she was commissioned with the overwhelming order from the United States armed forces, so she recruited help from her daughter, two nieces, and two free women of color. Together, feverishly and late into the evenings, their eyes must have burned with the strain of working by candlelight.

Pickersgill couldn’t have known the 50 pound, 30-foot by 42-foot, 15-starred and 15-striped garrison flag would take nine men…

Click here to read the rest of my column in this month’s Zionsville Current Newspaper!

Robins. A poem.

The robins and I


each other, as if neither were a surprise

but simply the intertwining 

of the world.

The river birch struggles

above us, a victim of last year’s


This is not a surprise, either.

The world is harsh,

after all.