Friday, January 11, 2013


For those that might not be able to see the graphic, here is the poem:


Unseasonably warm, and yet a chill rides through my bones.
And the gray fog wraps around me whispering secrets I have buried.
For the fog does no longer hides and disguises, but reveals.
I try to speak but it says, “Shhh. Just listen.”
And I realize that the fears I have hidden have awoken
Resurfacing from their dormant state
Resurrecting  to haunt me again.
Fingers of fog holding tighter as I struggle to become free,
But freedom is a high price and my karmic debt is not yet paid.
I have no credit left.
                                                               ~ Pasty Dunbar

I wrote it this morning looking out of my bedroom window at the thick gray fog that surrounding the house. The snow is melting and, warm for Wisconsinites, a lot of people have been wearing sweaters instead of thick coats.Yet it is only January. Very warm.

Last night, as the house was very quiet a large boom rang through the house shaking the floors. Startled I stopped and yelled to make sure my husband, Brian, was okay. He said, "What the hell was that?" Looking through the house we didn't see anything. Then it dawned on us both at the same time. The extremely large icicle, about seven feet high and three feet round, had fallen on the extended roof. Sure enough there lay the fragments. The roof unharmed, but the memory of house shivering and shaking fresh in our mind. 

Our home was built in 1890. There was no damage, but there was this thought: Damn! They sure built this house to last. 

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