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Kindred Spirit
Joe Cottonwood


Gave my daughter, age one
††††††††††† who could draw better than walk
a pad of Post-its, the tiny ones.

She crayon scribbled
peeled each one
to hide in corners
††††††††††† behind books
††††††††††† under the toothpaste tube
††††††††††† inside shoes.

A year later, moving out
††††††††††† cleaning up
I find behind
††††††††††† the clothes dryer
a nest woven with
††††††††††† gatherings of moss
††††††††††† dryer lint
††††††††††† lined by her Post-its
stolen by mice
††††††††††† who appreciate
††††††††††† fresh art.

© by Joe Cottonwood.
Used here with the authorís permission.


Joe Cottonwood has worked in the building trades for most of his life: carpenter, plumber, electrician. He’s also worked as a writer throughout his life, publishing, as he puts it, “a bunch of books, but never hitting it big.” Originally from Maryland, with a definite bias toward things Appalachian, Joe eventually moved west to La Honda, California, where he built a house under redwoods on a mountainside, raised a family, and remains there today, still living with the same woman for half a century and playing with the grandkids. Learn more about him at




Post New Comment:
Fully enjoyed this poem. Thanks,Joe.
Posted 05/16/2017 05:24 PM
Lori Levy:
Love the ending--"mice/who appreciate/fresh art."
Posted 05/16/2017 11:06 AM
Those precious moments that turn to wonderful poetry.
Posted 05/16/2017 10:12 AM
Fun for sure.
Posted 05/16/2017 09:04 AM
Communication is squeaking with life.
Posted 05/16/2017 04:38 AM

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