In an atmosphere continually fraught
I seek clarity.
Who am I and what am I here for?
Why must we endure seemingly endless days
under clouds and rain, deprived of
the nurturing sun?
What is the purpose of ongoing wars
and other violence throughout the world?
Some days, it seems more than I can bear.
Then, a cardinal alights to feed outside my window.
A stranger on the street smiles my way
and the laughter of a child arrives
on a passing breeze.
I remember to seek balance
and begin again.
Carol watched the glass fall. It slid from her fingers and descended past the counter’s edge, past her swelling belly and swollen ankles to crash on the kitchen’s tile floor. The hand that had recently held the glass fluttered up to touch her face, as though affirming that it was still there. It hadn’t suddenly changed like everything else that she thought she knew.
She eased herself down to a crouch and began collecting the
chunks and shards resting in puddles of once sparkling water. She carefully
laid them in her hand, one by one, until she’d gathered them all. There was no
way to restore the glass to its original condition, much like her life.
Stepping over the water she walked to the trash bin and
dumped the glass inside. The last piece to slide from her hand left a thin
scratch, quickly rimmed with red. She might not escape this situation
unchanged, but perhaps she would become more distinct, sharper in some way.
Only time would tell.
Maple
draped in her finest
Undressed slowly by
the northern wind
slender branches reaching up
Costumed children with
blooming cheeks
shriek round and round
seeing candy and treats
knowing they’ll return to warmth
I have several bird feeders situated outside my office window. During the spring and summer, there are hummingbird feeders, oriole feeders, and a seed feeder. During the fall, we switch out the hummingbird and oriole feeders for suet.
The bluejays stage in the trees surrounding our yard,
waiting for my husband to toss a handful
of peanuts onto our deck. Not technically a feeder, but part of the avian
feeding system he has devised. They fly in one at a time to snatch the nuts with
nimble efficiency from the deck floor and flit away as the next dives in. I
wonder who choreographs this feeding ballet.
The red-bellied woodpecker comes to feed alone. Occasionally
I will see him perched on the weathered wooden seed feeder, but most of the
time, he favors the suet. His balance seems precarious as he grabs the wire
surrounding the suet with his feet and bends his body to peck at the suet, but
he is well practiced and has a firm grip.
During the winter we sometimes get other woodpeckers,
chickadees, juncos, mourning doves, finches, sparrows, and more. It always
brightens my day to watch their entertaining behavior at and around the
feeders.
On my drive this morning,
I passed a family of sandhills cranes
congregating at the side of the road.
A bald eagle soared high above
and a hawk flew straight and low.
A group of turkey vultures spiraled
above a stand of trees.
Alone in my car rushing down
asphalt highways, I marveled
at nature in action.
She sashays to
a waltz wafting on
the western wind
Across moonlit
marsh
above placid pond
over roiling river
She dances past dawn
softening the sunrise and
hushing the waking world
I approach my victims with stealth and murderous intent. One by one, I pluck them from their destructive and self-absorbed lives.
For the most part, they never see it coming and before you
know it, they are struggling for air, legs flailing until they are, at last,
still. Later, I will discard their bodies and start again.
It may be a futile attempt given how many of them populate
the area, but I do what I can to protect my precious flowers, no matter how
lacy their leaves have become. Damn beetles!
I rush down the highland slope
compelled by gravity toward thinner air below
green gold and blue blur
trees bow at my passing
birds startle and
rivers shiver
all other sound is lost beneath
my roar
Miranda left the store, list still clutched in her trembling hand. She dropped the paper in her purse and fished out her keys as she hurried to her car.
Once inside, she locked the doors and turned the air on full
blast. She couldn’t be sure if it was another hot flash or adrenaline, but she
felt in danger of spontaneous combustion.
It was not like her to be so bold, to take matters into her
own hands. But the time for waiting was long past and action was imperative.
She had less than 2 hours left to check everything off her
list.
Miranda pulled the list from her purse. It spanned the
length of the #10 envelope in her tiny, measured block print. Fortunately, most
of the items were already checked off.
She puts the car in gear and navigates the twists and turns
to Rib Mountain State Park and parks near the visitor center. Her sturdy shoes
carry her across the uneven path, through the maze of large rocks and to the
tower.
She begins the climb. These are the last moments of “life
before.”
As she reaches the third platform she pauses to look out
over the city she’s always called home. It’s small by Chicago or Minneapolis
standards but it holds everything she needs. All she is finally claiming and
curating.
Finally at the top, out of breath but smiling, she carefully
releases the paper cranes she made earlier in the day. Her heart flutters along
with the paper as it makes its way to trees, bushes and ground. She feels good
as she takes her list in hand and crosses off WATCH CRANES FLY and CLIMB RIB
MOUNTAIN TOWER.
Only two items remain on her list and less than an hour
before she begins chemo.
Quickly, before she can scold herself out of it, she grabs
her pocketknife and carves her name in the top deck’s railing, then begins her
descent.
She’s nearly back to her car when she remembers to cross
CARVE NAME from her list and sees that there’s just one item left. She takes a
moment to look around and notices a clump of hyssop. She snaps some stems and
brings the flowers to her nose, inhaling deeply as she walks back to her car.
She thinks that maybe she will plant some outside her condo as a reminder to
SMELL THE FLOWERS every day.
The cat wanders past looking quite pleased with herself. After a two-day absence she has returned. The prodigal kitty, fattened on songbirds and squirrels, chipmunks and rabbits. She lumbers, belly hanging low, mewing to herself a lullaby. I look out the screen door before locking it and spy the rodent head she left, a gift, no doubt, and peace offering after her wild outdoor adventures.
I know we shouldn’t let her out. Our village has an
ordinance forbidding cats from roaming. But she was wild when she chose us and
we simply cannot convince her to remain indoors. She darts between my legs when
I carry laundry out to hang it on the line. She climbs the screen and yowls,
demanding to be set free. She has a
life, after all. Social engagements to keep. Lovers to meet. Rodent populations
to control.
Soon she will mother her third litter of kittens. I promise
myself I will take her to the vet to have her ‘fixed’. But I’ve broken that
promise twice before. I love the blind eyed babies she bears. Their early
wobbling steps. Their fierce need to nurse. The way they quickly fluff out.
Their endless curiosity and antics. They make the world a bit less lonely. They
bring me joy. They are my family too.
(Memories of Misty, one of our family cats from my childhood.)
I remember playing amid the bed sheets hanging from Mom’s clothesline at seven years old, my sister briefly silhouetted by the morning sun, disappearing before I could tag her. Only the ghost of a giggle remained to prove she’d been there.
When I was 16, my mother worked on an inpatient psychiatric
unit, a high school equivalency degree enough to quality her to monitor the
residents. One day, when a colleague was on lunch break and late to return, my
mom was left defenseless in the face and fists of a resident who tried to kill
her. With blackened eyes, bruised throat and broken ribs she watched me hang our
laundry under a dazzling sky, me so
desperate to help, so thankful that intervention came in time and she was
returned to us intact, mostly. It was a gift to have her continued guidance as
I moved into adulthood.
I put up a small umbrella clothesline outside our duplex door in
1988 and hung my children’s clothes to dry throughout the summer when they were
one and two-years old. Onesies, wee socks, sleepers, leggings, t-shirts and
sweet teddy bear crib sheets cavorted in the breeze amidst my husband’s work
shirts. These were meditative moments while toddlers napped, and the scent of
line-dried sheets was a comforting welcome when it was time to sleep.
We bought our first house in 1991
and erected a sturdy clothesline behind our garage. It was the site of energy
saving efficiency as well as fantasy borne of blankets slung over the lines to
create forts for my little ones. We’d play beneath the woolly shade imagining
we were dragons or pirates or royalty in a castle.
When we moved to our current home
in 2014, we reverted to the umbrella style clothesline to make the most of a
smaller back yard. One day when I was hanging shirts on the line, my little
neighbor girl asked why I was putting my clothes on a tree. It saddened me to
realize that she would never know the joy of hiding among the sheets or
pretending beneath a blanket lovingly positioned by a parent. I explained that
I was drying my clothes, that I loved the way they smelled when I brought them
in, that I was saving energy by letting the sun and the breeze do the work that
would otherwise fall to the dryer in the basement, that I enjoyed the excuse to
spend a little more time outside. She simply nodded and trotted off to play
with her brother.
February of 2024 was a strange
month in Wisconsin, warm enough for me to hang laundry on the line above
snow-free grass. Dormant plants were tricked by the spring-like weather and
some began to sprout. I carried my laden clothes basket to the back yard, basking
in the 50-degree temperatures and the brilliant sun. I thought of all the times
my mom had hung the laundry to dry, and her mom, and her mom’s mom. My mom was
prevalent in my thoughts that day… She was at her home dying of the cancer that
had spread throughout her body and I was at my home for only a few hours… my
sisters and I were caring for her around the clock and it was my turn for a
brief respite. I thought of her welcoming smile and sparkling eyes as I
retrieved each item from the basket and fixed it with wooden clothespins to the
web shaped lines. My gratitude for all she taught me welled and overflowed as
tears.
She left us a few days later and I’m
thankful she’s no longer suffering. I imagine her watching me hang laundry from
wherever she is, smiling.
Leaving Antigo, I want
to call you. To tell you
that the church you grew up in
has a new gathering space now.
But the altar and pews
haven't changed.
I remember being there when
Grandpa married after Grandma died.
I remember a succession of funerals.
I know you held that place
close to your heart.
It is a symbol of your childhood,
your innocence,
your formation.
I ache to hold your hand and
miss you with every cell,
every thought, every breath.
You were there when I took my
first breath.
I was there when you took
your last.
I will miss you until
we are together again.
Black crow
Watch your
strut
Bob your
head
Shake your
butt
Don’t think
too hard
Just go with
the flow
When it’s
right
The flow
will know
Black crow
Bob your
head
And you will
see
You’re well
fed
Squirrel and
rabbit
Deer and cat
You duck and
jive
Lovin’ where
you’re at
Black crow
Watch the
street
Knowing fast
cars bring
More meat
Watch your
strut
Bob your
head
Shuffle
those feet
Dine on the
dead
“Janie. Come in here. Right away.”
Recrimination echoed in the ensuing silence. Janie tucked
her hair behind her ears, straightened her shirt, took a deep breath, walked
slowly down the hall and into the sunlit corner room where a matronly lady stood
reviewing the wreckage of Janie’s work.
“You do know that you’ve painted yourself into a corner this
time. You’re up the creek without a paddle, on the roof without a ladder, in
the mine without a parakeet. In short, you, my friend, are in trouble.”
Tears came to Janie’s eyes.
“I’m, I’m s-s-s-sorry.”
“Well, we’re kind of past the point of sorry now.”
Stern icy blue eyes under shaggy grey eyebrows looked down
at Janie who was now more aware of her slight stature than she’d ever been.
“What do you want me to do,” she asked.
Janie held her hands in front of her, pleading. She also
held her breath.
“Janie, if this had been the first time we could overlook
it. But you’ve done this before. Several times.”
“But I’ll do better. I promise!”
The craggy face in which the eyes resided moved closer.
“OK. I believe you. So here’s what what’s going to happen.
You’re going to clean up the mess you made, and you’ll do it without complaint.”
“I understand,” Janie said. She brushed her hands together,
ready to get down to business.
“And Janie…”
“Yes?”
“Next time you want to make cookies, check with me first. We
can have a grandma and Janie baking lesson.
Janie smiled and nodded as she swept flour, chocolate chips
and eggshells, her culinary palette, from the floor.
ghosts of last fall’s leaves
tattoo the sidewalk
in coffee-colored points and dips
their brilliant colors faded and edges blurred
just a memory of what was
the maple may not recognize her shed
marked on the ridged concrete below shadowed branches
I pray for the strength to release
what I no longer need
as I weather the seasons
The mind manacle tightened
‘till ideas spurted.
No sagacity squandered
as the mind wandered and wended
exploring expanded exigencies.
A chorus of characters kick-lining
to culmination backed by
an orchestra of she and his
saying and playing.
No right or wrong
just is and as
in the absinth moment.
