Welcome. This memorial website celebrates the life and writings of
Penny "Penroe" Walker Bosselmann as introduced by her loving husband, David.
Linger, ponder and treasure her words of wisdom.
by David Bosselmann with Barbara Krause
Step out of time.
This fusion of biography, poetry and memoir illustrates the gift of a rare perspective, an encounter with the authentic self. When all labels are stripped away, what is left? Feel Penny's creative spirit move you to unparalleled heights; witness the presence of her sage owl, her animal totem; and be empowered by her words of wisdom.
Rejuvenation is yours: New moments inspired by the natural world; new purpose, beauty, and acceptance of circumstances; and a new understanding of the connectivity to all. With unguarded heart, open to the life and writings of Penny Walker Bosselmann, Nature Mystic, poet, dancer, singer, movement therapist, and soul mate of husband, David.
Step into wisdom.
David has gifted me with an opportunity for creative expression. I thank him.
Each client holds amazing possibilities. Story, background, relationships, vision, and surprise each play a role in my writing projects. I began working with David Bosselmann as an editor for his manuscript, a biography tribute to Penny, his soul mate, wife, and best friend. Originally, David’s audience was family and friends. Read more...
Penny's poem that inspired the title of David's book:
When Penny viewed change through nature’s eyes, transitions became possibilities: the courage of cilia peeking through the snow, tree blossoms becoming leaves or caterpillars emerging as striking butterflies. Amid endless time and changing forms, energy is constant. It is a powerful witness.
September 25, 1996
As we count time,
thunder is not even a step
behind the jagged line
of light in the night sky.
And as we count time,
I run from the woods
fast enough to leave
me standing here on the
front porch, cold, but dry,
watching the rain.
The garden will be washed clean.
Evergreens ready for sleep, though
they look the same as a month ago.
The pansies will die, of course,
and as we count time,
will be gone forever, unless
they bloom, purple and white
in another field without time.
What will you and I be when the snow
a bear, asleep by your desk?
Whatever animal I become
will take up its sadness
and whatever joy, and
come to the river, wait
there until snow fall, white
pansies that vanish on
If the animal of myself
makes a sound, it
will be a lot like singing.