To My Ian I take down April’s memories, Of six and twenty years ago, When heavy clouds hung dark and full, And rain began to flow. I felt a weight depart from me, A sudden, hollow fear "Is he alive?" I screamed, afraid, That you were no longer near. For silence filled the heavy room, As shadows of a loss once felt Stirred within the sudden gloom, And all my courage dealt. But you were being warmed and held, While your father, in the grace Of those years when love was still ou

A poem wishing Jane Austen a Happy Birthday! The Parlor's Cartographer No sword drawn, no great siege upon the wall, But in the drawing-room, she saw it all. The minor siege of status, slight, and stare, The subtle, perfect cruelty found there. She was the chronicler of Highbury's lanes, The silent registrar of social pains. She measured passion with a steady hand, The most accurate chronicler in all the land. In Pemberley, the pride was overthrown, In Mansfield Park, discret