All photo credits go to Ellen, who may or may not want her full name here. But until and unless I ask her about that, you can still smile at the bright eye that sees beauty, and the skill that preserves it on film!

(Any odd distortions due to my resizing her scanned photos, though, are my own contribution. *wink*)

The Ocean, in the Industrial Northeast Megapolis (Red smear of "population density" on my map), Isn't what I thought it would be. The black sludge is missing, the floating needles, The other detritus of rampant me-first consumerism And too many people shitting in one place. I left the South, and went to look for myself, And Ellen showed me the ocean, her Ocean-- And here grow bright-waving plants beside a living sea. The waves wash inward; we saw a fox on the beach. An old man in New Jersey ate ice cream with his pampered dog, And smiled, and told us stories. This water isn't Georgia-water, or South Carolina-water. It isn't even the salty taste of New Orleans. And this Mississippi River kind of girl isn't used to it yet, Even after salt-baths in New Zealand, in Wales. But whether I can ever really accept it, I thank the woman, Who took my sludge-thoughts, and made them living loving life-things.

Have you a memory Of a setting sun? A day of shared laughter? A palm warm against your own? A lover's gentle kiss? I have.

There's a place, just down the road from the Rainbow Resort, Where the water tumbles down the mountainside-- Sometimes in a white spring-thaw rush of motion suddenly unrestrained, And sometimes in a whiter frozen winter flowing. In the summer, green life surrounds the still-white toss, Before the jewel is set in autumn's red-gold finding. But in the between-time of magic and miracles, There came a time when two women stood together Where the mad rush of water is known to prevent any footstep. And we laughed, and climbed, and saved the treasured memory, Of being full of wonder in a forbidden place, Of walking safely where no fool would think to stay afoot, Of smiling in the sunshine, and knowing That when magical women venture together into the woods, Anything can happen.

I look at these images, and see change-- I two sizes smaller, but different inside as well. And we, who once were lovers, now are friends. And all is as it should be.

And now the sky is darker, And other water falls. But we, the trees, the dirt, and I, Do not forget.

Return to the Front Door.

Read other of my writings in my Library.

E-mail me at Weavre_@hotmail.com.