I scribbled this poem at my friend Madelon's house where I've been invited to write two mornings a week. Having two sixteen-year-olds, I find that I can't attend as often as I'd like, but whenever I do, it's magic.


She begins the sentence
imagining she already knows
where it will go, imagining
that its beginning possesses a kernel
of knowingness to carry her
to its end, imagining (at least)
that the sentence knows what it's
about, imagining that like
a caterpillar becoming a butterfly
the sentence will progress
from beginning to middle to end neatly,
predictably, never imagining
that she will have to end
her sentence without knowing
what may have been meant by it,
never imagining anything
so abrupt, murky, and final
as the ending she finds.


  1. And the older we get the more it happens with that sentence not finding its successful end as we say, "now where was I going with that" but then I am reminded by a child that the same thing happens to them and I am relieved one more time. Good thought Bethany - that sentence poem. Love, the Froglady

  2. Carolynne! I think you have it exactly right. I used to think I had control, but having children has taught me that was always an illusion...

    My dear, do you know that Lois's memorial is next Sat at 11 a.m.? We're leaving for Hawaii in the morning and I have not done a good job informing my care group! Talk to you soon!


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