The North Pool

 Shoes squeak across the YMCA lobby. Folks of all ages hurrying to their class or preferred workout area. 

A notice is posted at the desk that the north pool is temporarily closed, so lap swim is available only in the south pool. Two women walk by whispering about a rumored drowning at this morning's water exercise class. 

I decide to walk over and check it out for myself.

I peer through the glass of the observation deck. The lights are off in the pool area and it's hard to see. The rescue hook, kick boards, water weights and a discarded swim shoe lay strewn across the deck. 

I checked the locker room door. Unlocked. I pushed it open and entered the dark space. The only light was a soft glow coming from the sink. A woman stood there, naked as the day she was born, finger combing her hair in the mirror. 

"Hello," I ventured. "I was just trying to figure out why the pool is closed.

She continued futzing with an errant curl near her right ear.

"Oh, I don't know what all the fuss is about," she replied as she continued to struggle with an errant curl near her right ear. 

I washed my hands and told her what I'd heard at the front desk. When I looked up again, she was gone. All that was left was a single water shoe and a small puddle of pool water where she had stood. My question had been answered.

Impending

 Rising winds set the trees

dancing.

Leaves scatter, a poor imitation

of the raindrops to come.

Unsettled Night

 

I was immersed in an interesting dream when

I woke to a cold finger on my forehead,

images scattered,

fog on wind.

 

The second time in a single night,

summoned to swap wet sheets

and blankets for

dry bedding and

witness the small being

burrow deep

returning to her dreams,

a warm kiss planted on her brow.

 

Spreading Love

 The world is heavy.

Grief bleeds through media

and daily conversation.

Let me balance bad news

with hopefulness.

Make me a clown

showing others humor and beauty

in the mundane.

Make me an instrument of joy and

waft me on the wind

like dandelion fluff

to land far and near

spreading spores of love

wherever I alight.

Grammar of Desire

Beneath the tree's shadow

two souls study the

grammar of desire.

They experiment with 

lips and hands,

not thinking,

only feeling.

We, perched in topmost branches,

spread our wings and soar,

released at last.

Delays

Clara clatters down the hall, one heel on her battered shoes an eighth-inch shorter than the other, the rubber lift having worn off. Her blue and red dyed hair clashes with her traffic cone orange jacket, but she doesn’t care. She loves color and revels in visual cacophony. 

She reaches her office door and bumps it hard with her hip as she turns the knob. Reluctant hinges grudgingly stutter the door to a partial open. She meant to fix that last week. 

Clara pushes through and drops her sack lunch (today it’s egg salad on rye along with a side of mincemeat pie, dangerously close to expiration) on her desk. The floor is cluttered with boxes and files. The grimy high set windows allow the barest trace of sunlight through. Maybe next week she'd climb the rickety office ladder and take a swipe at them.

With a sigh she plops in her ancient, creaky office chair. Missing the bus had made her late for work. Again. At least there were no meetings today that she'd need to rush off to.

A knock on her door startles her and she swings her chair to the left, banging both legs in the process. She swears a blue streak as a head, topped by lustrous black hair above a handsome face and startling blue eyes, peeks past the door and into her domain. It is at this precise moment that the seat of her chair chooses to disengage from the bottom (the large screw that had come out yesterday sat atop her desk waiting for re-insertion), and she toppled backward, legs akimbo. Clara instantly and irrevocably regretting her decision to delay shopping for new undergarments. 

Temptress Spring

Winter descends

decisive and bold

cold blowing and

candles lit to offset

shrinking daylight.

He is direct.

 

Spring, however, is capricious,

tantalizing and teasing with

tastes of warming temperatures

to tempt us from our dens.

But suns warming rays are fleeting

and daffodils suffer below

late snow blankets.

Last fall’s leaves and winter trash

rush across lawns to gather at fence lines,

hedgerows and roadside ditches.

She is a diva, constantly changing

her mind and guise.

 

She peeks from cloud covered skies,

curious how long we will wait.