OUR ISABEL
We named her Isabel Damaris
For genial Grandma Belle Morgan
And one of the Mayflower daughters
Because she arrived on Thanksgiving,
But Izzy was never called Belle.
She played the French horn and soccer,
Built furniture, threw Raku pots,
Brought up a son with wife Beth,
Computed systems analyses,
And took to the woods in a tent.
She went on to home-groom pets
And cheer-lead her aging mother,
Who gives thanks every year
For Izzy’s affection and zest.
Our Last Adventure
We took the icebreaker out of St. John
With her Russian crew and Canadian chefs
To explore the rocky coast of Labrador
And mingle with the friendly Inuits.
In Just spring on the tundra in late July
The alpine meadows were in full flower.
Polar bears were easy to spy
And black bears lolling on grassy shores.
We bounced on kodiaks into the shallows.
Our guides carried rifles and went ahead.
This far north there were no more roads:
Villagers kayaked by sea instead.
Mission churches, schools, meeting houses,
Doctor Grenfell’s famous clinic,
Hopes for renewable tidal power,
Gemstones and carvings in the markets,
You with your daughter, still able to hike,
Relishing views from the sea-sprayed deck:
I cherish these pictures in my mind
Years after our Inuit plane flew us back.