Having learned to turn
sandy socks inside out
before washing,
nudged by flitting time,
I came to her Day of Rest
and waded out into a
summery morning surf
in the Gulf of Mexico, with
a plastic bag of her ashes.


She called the Susquehanna River Valley
home, but no child of hers would make that trip,
knowing rivers winder ever to the sea.
So standing on a sandy bottom
a few yards offshore,
waist deep in the moment,
I dumped the contents
in one widening splash.
For a moment they were suspended
just below the crest of a wave,
and as it fled to the shore
the leftovers of her presence
broke into a vanishing swirl.
And then all those moments
of Love and terror,
Crank and rage,
longing and desire,
dissolved
into peace and calm
she never knew.

Norm Baxter has had many different jobs, among them restaurant worker, janitor, painter,
printer, carpenter, educator, writer, and farmer. However, his employment history is really just a
series of funny stories. He once built his own house, which has been sold, torn down, and
replaced with a McMansion. He has made it a practice to never quite fit in, which has been a
source of delight and wonder, as well as loneliness and sorrow. He has frequently been a victim
of his own enthusiasm.