When I look back at the Painter’s Notes
over the years
it warms my soul
to read how many of them
mention Lynn Langmuir.
She is after all
the first and only reason
I ever set foot on Martha’s Vineyard.
From our early days
as room mates in Somerville
her prodigious generosity
was surpassed by her kindness
and then some more by her curiosity
but the cherry on top
was her laughter.
That full throated
heart bursting
joyous roar
would shake the bluff
and echo over the ocean waves.
Years ago
and no, I don’t remember now how many,
she brought me a treasure
from a trip that she and Ellen
had taken to Scotland.
A tiny tuft
warmed by sunshine
soft and white
and smelling of
stone walled pastures
filled with sheep.
She had watched me learn to spin
and packed the ever present bag of knitting
alongside our spaghetti boxes
into her VW for those early ferry rides.
And with that memory in mind
she knew the exact bestest gift
for her artist friend.
That was behind the subject matter
and of course the title here
but you can’t touch the place
deep inside
where I can still
hear her laugh.