Sweet Summer

 I am alive.

I spin and jive.

Honeycomb and bees

come from a hive.

Get to the water and

take a dive.

A cold shower is

sure to revive.

Give yourself a

big high-five.

Trees sigh and

apple peels fly,

fruit and knife

pare. Pie thrives.

Peace and Mourning

 

Frosty lace covers the tree branches, the bushes, the shepherd’s hook in my dormant garden where a few leaves poke up from dirty snow. Now as thin as onion skin, not much more than an intricate weaving of vein, they provide little cover for the perennials tucked beneath.

The ground beneath the snow at Gates of Heaven is diamond-hard this time of year. It took jackhammers and a backhoe hours of pounding and slashing to leave the rectangle that would receive your coffin. The family didn’t want to wait for the spring thaw. You had to be buried right away.

After the church service, we formed a line around the hole and sang as you were lowered in. Some stepped forward to drop tentative flowers on the glossy wood before the first ceremonial handful of dirt was sprinkled down. We didn’t witness the piled dirt return to its resting place. That would be done later.

We were ushered back to our cars and the funeral lunch. Aproned parishioners waited on us with abstract solicitousness. I chatted with friends, dry-eyed.

Finally, in the car, alone with a peace lily someone insisted I keep, I wept for you, for me, and for all that was lost.

Word Gardening

Plant a story.

Water it with imagination,

words spurting over your

seedling tale.

Talk to it.

Ask for plots and plans, 

but be careful to trim

tired metaphors.

Wail when the hail falls

smashing syntax,

leveling lines and

battering boundaries. 

Rejoice when the clouds clear

and your sturdy story

again reaches up

touching hearts and minds.

Called

 

The tiny voice from the kitchen called me, increasingly insistent. I tried to block it out and continue with my work. Now, where was I… This website was a mess and would require all my concentration to trouble shoot and fix it. Move this here. Shorten that bit of copy. Replace this photo. Add this alt tag. Much better.

I sat back in my chair to survey my work, satisfaction blossoming at the improvements made already and shining back at my from my computer screen. I stretched and smiled. Time for a break.

I carried my glass to the sink to get a drink of water, and there it was again. A lilliputian siren song coming from the end of the counter. Without thinking I moved toward it, first one step, then another, and soon I was overcome, resistance erased.

As I dipped my hand into the jar and peeled the wrapper back, revealing the enticing chocolate, I reminded myself that I would eat better tomorrow.

Frightening Feast

 

The beastly feast was filled with frights,

 

fangs and claws and flickering lights.

 

Table manners went unobserved;

 

grunts, farts and loud burps were heard.

 

Food was gobbled, slurped and chawed.

 

Drinks were spilled. Bones were gnawed.

 

The room was left in quite a state

 

when we realized the time was late.

 

We sliced the cake and passed it 'round

 

then at the door, a pound, pound, pound!

 

I hurried to the entryway

 

thrilled this was the end of day.

 

Our guests flowed in my wake

 

their hunger and thirst now fully slaked.

 

I sent them home with daddies and mammas

 

and put my little beast in his pajamas.

 

Another birthday. Another year.

 

My baby's growing up, I fear.

 

Next year we'll do something less frightening,

 

like riding tigers or bull fighting.

 

Weather

The storm brings an early close to the day. Vendors at the Weston farmers market pack up their wares in haste, wind chuffing the tops of the sun canopies and tugging at the poles and tethers.

I pull into my long gravel drive just as the skies burst and fat drops of rain hit my windshield. I park my truck into the garage, apples bumping about in the back as our forward momentum stops. I take a deep breath before tugging my keys from the ignition with a shaky hand.

Rain pummels the earth in sheets creating rivers in the dirt between the garage and the house. I run full tilt, drenched through before I reach the kitchen door.

Inside, I shrug off my coat and jeans, leaving them in a puddle by the door and pad to my bedroom. The sheets and blanket lay crumpled at the foot of the narrow bed. Pulling on warm sweats and a dry shirt I ponder how it was that after all these years I still hate storms.

I was eight when the stream swept me away, lightning split the sky and my dad screamed for me as he ran along the bank. Tree branches and pieces of lumber raced me to the bridge where I was finally washed ashore. If my dad hadn’t been there and pushed the water from my lungs, replacing it with the gift of his breath I would not have lived.

Tears run down my face, mimicking the cascade of rain on the windows.

Thunder rumbles, rattling the glass in its pane. I shudder, wondering how I’ll weather the night.

Making Room

 Kara was tired. Of everything. Last week she quit her job. The week before, she kicked Romeo to the curb. Not literally. Just figuratively. Though literally kicking his lazy, lying ass would certainly have been satisfying.

Each day she carted more stuff from the house to the garage until there was no room for even the smallest spider to weave its way through. She’d have to rent a truck and haul it to the Goodwill soon.

She stepped back into the house and surveyed the sparse furnishings. It was junk. Every last bit of it. Crap. Garbage. Worthless.

Kara pulled the broom from the closet and began to sweep. Dust bunnies scurried for cover and expansive clouds of dust bloomed before her. Soon her eyes teared and her nose began to run. She sneezed and swept even harder.

She remembered being called worthless. By her mother. Her pop. Her teachers. She used to believe them. But that was behind her. Once she decided to regain control and direct her own life there was no stopping her. She was invincible. Stronger than Wonder Woman, though dressed in much more modest attire.

Cleaning this hovel was a lost cause. So why was she bothering? With her newfound confidence she could go anywhere and be anything.

Kara plucked her purse off the table and strode out the door. After a few steps she paused to look back. This isn’t right, she decided.

She marched forward, picked up a corner of the house and hurled it away. It landed in a heap, now just a shamble of weathered boards, useless furniture and twisted metal. A single flower poked up from what had been her bedroom window.

The smile started slow, a mere twitch of the lips, then grew to light her eyes and tickle her stomach. She flipped her hair and turned toward the road, eager to see who she would become.