Wherever we’re going
is Monday morning
Wherever we’re coming from
is Mother’s lap.
Maxine Kumin, Pulitzer Prize-winning poet, has died at 88. I loved her work, especially this poem. You can hear her read it below, or at the Poetry Foundation.
Graffiti for Butterflies
Because It Is November, and I Can Relate
How I’m logging our readalouds this year
Keeping Calm During the Storm