top of page



First published in Family Voices, 2011

Renvyle Peninsula, Connemara, Ireland, 29 May 1999

Gray the day, but green, oh, green yes, green so green the hummocked grasses. bent by sea-wound, seaweed-scented wind, the tufts of iris lean, myriad spikes, shimmering masses of fragile flowers dying daily; nestled in the hilly passes they greet grayness and live gaily. Our recollections change. As seen through memory’s grayness, times and time, like ghostly crags of green enmisted hills, appear, the mimes of our desires and hopes and vented expectations, central parts of who we are. Again, the scented winds enliven us like larks. Gray the day, but green, oh green our hearts.

Old Friends Meet in ConnemaraGeorge Spaeth
00:00 / 01:17


First published in Snapdragon's June 2022 edition

I am here in the long past before what we call life. A wild peacefulness of unimaginable forces, ordered somehow, is blown over sun-heated seaweed lining the ocean’s edge up over the hot gray shelving granite rocks, past resinous balsams, through the open green screen-door, into and through this den, to me and through me, and out the screened window, and on into an expanding future. The fluff of spreading fireweed floats past the stolid seagulls standing still by the edge of the sea, looking West, into the wind. Do they worry about the coming cold, soon or too far distant to be envisioned? I sink into my wicker chair, try to lose my edges and merge with the ancient source of the wind, and its destination, so I can touch that which I love, and be touched by what loves me.

In my father’s study by the seaGeorge Spaeth
00:00 / 01:31


First published in Family Voices, 2011

Later revised and published in Moonstone Arts Center's 2022 Earth Day Anthology

Deep Lake is narrow, long, an ancient place, walled in by shadowed, time-worn palisades, whose angled faces now are mossy green. Wisps of wind whisper the aspen’s leaves. Faint fluting drifts from distant sagebrush canyons, played by people still remaining here, though now evicted from their native homes. Now, a group of new adventurers sees rocky cliffs, way high above the lake, an opportunity to fly, exulting in the loud explosive crash as they break through the startled water's surface, shattering the rippling reflection of pink clouds, edgeless in a pale-blue wash of sky. I sit, aware of aching knees, and try to find a place of ease on broken scree, a spot that does not thwart my wish to be welcomed by a world as it should be. I wonder, would the cliff jump hurt my knees? A lone merganser, slender, paddles slowly through the end of day; the evening’s haze descends, diffusing the sun’s now weakening gaze. Is it prudence, or becoming stiff? I, too, used to jump from rocky cliffs.

Deep LakeGeorge Spaeth
00:00 / 01:43
bottom of page