flowerssmall nicaart_014smallGentle • thoughtful• gentle soul • creative • artistic • a sweet girl• confident • observant • a good artist • gentle and kind • generous • interested • all smiles • kind • lots of ideas • artistic • quietly sweet • has a lot to say • sweet nature • very helpful and smart • #1 treasure collector • good team player • always full of smiles and sunbeams • quiet • sweet and diligent

From Veronica’s classmatesDonutsSmall

Dear Mom

p7020030smallby Sam, Feb 27 2008

Dear Mom,

Do you know what I’ll do on a star-filled night?
I’ll take a picter and give it to you.

Do you know what I’ll do when you sick?
I’ll make some tea and buy some flowers and give them to you.

Do you know what I’ll do when you’re sad?
I’ll play a happy song on the piano.

Do you know what I’ll do when you drive?
I’ll be quiet so you can concentrate.

robert, ana maria & babysmallDo you know what I’ll do in the spring?
I’ll pick some flowers and give them to you.

Do you know what I’ll do when you’re stressed out?
I’ll give you a massage.

Do you know what I’ll do when it’s your birthday?
I’ll make a card and give it to you.

Do you know what I’ll do when you’re upset?
I’ll give you a hug and a kiss.


About Angels and About Trees


by Mary OliverNica

Where do angels
 fly in the firmament,
and how many can dance
 on the head of a pin?

Well, I don’t care
 about that pin dance,
what I know is that
 they rest, sometimes,
in the tops of the trees

and you can see them,
 or almost see them,
or, anyway, think: what a
 wonderful idea.

Sam and Nica, HalloweenI have lost as you and
others have possibly lost a
 beloved one,
and wonder, where are they now?

The trees, anyway, are
 miraculous, full of
angels (ideas); even
 empty they are a
good place to look, to put
 the heart at rest—all those
leaves breathing the air, so

peaceful and diligent, and certainlyNica's Family
 ready to be
the resting place of
 strange, winged creatures
that we, in this world, have loved. nicaart_026medium


Pic1 pic2pic3pic6 A poem by Maya Angelou

When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.

When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breath, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
gnaws on kind words
promised walks
never taken.

Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their radiance,
fall away.

We are not so much maddened
as we are reduced
to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold caves.

And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whispered to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.