Mornings at the Cemetery

""The poet was surprised by death. She was panicked, abandoned, marooned, and descending into darkness, an unsought survivor. Woodall, the poet, suffered tendrils of pain, wincing with memories of her lifelong partner. With constant vigils at her husband's tombstone, she wrote haiku, as those tendrils coaxed the poet back to life. With her steadfast silence, moments of unexpected beauty brought insight, strength and, finally, a nurturing peace. Those in the thralls of deepest grief will recognize a fellow traveler."" --Constance K. Escher, author of She Calls Herself Betsey Stockton ""Ms. Woodall's utter defiance of death's thievery is staggering. It is hard to determine which is more powerful--the depth of her love or the art and the life she has discovered in loss."" P. A. Tippett, Poet ""The poet was surprised by death. She was panicked, abandoned, marooned, and descending into darkness, an unsought survivor. Woodall, the poet, suffered tendrils of pain, wincing with memories of her lifelong partner. With constant vigils at her husband's tombstone, she wrote haiku, as those tendrils coaxed the poet back to life. With her steadfast silence, moments of unexpected beauty brought insight, strength and, finally, a nurturing peace. Those in the thralls of deepest grief will recognize a fellow traveler."" --Constance K. Escher, author of She Calls Herself Betsey Stockton ""Ms. Woodall's utter defiance of death's thievery is staggering. It is hard to determine which is more powerful--the depth of her love or the art and the life she has discovered in loss."" P. A. Tippett, Poet