After the Snow

 clear march sky

 

 

sun reflects off

 

settled snow

 

 

finches feed on seeds

 

and sing

 

 

opportunities abound

Season

Season wandered her way throughout the year. Her moods shifted from cool to benign, balmy to frigid, steamy to stormy. She was changeable, to say the least.

One spring, she brought a freezing damp and withered the tulips who had foolishly begun to open up. After that, she moved with loving tenderness, nurturing and encouraging nascent ideas and growth.

As spring gave way to summer, she shone. Brilliant in the high blue sky, sun beamed down, grass grew tall and lush, crops grew sweet, deer grew fat. She had her tempers of course, sending wind swirling and ripping across fields and through neighborhoods until she was spent and her mood cleared. Stars bloomed in the sky as crickets sang.

By autumn she grew tired. Color blazed across her countenance then fades to brown and dropped to damp earth. Flowers ceased to bloom. Nights grew cold. She grew feeble.

Finally, she laid down and slept, left to dream of returning youth. 

Smile

 “Why don’t you smile,” he asked. “I bet you’re pretty when you smile.”

Right! Why would I bother smiling for him? He smelled like whiskey and cheese. His implication that I should try to make myself appealing for him was appalling.

We sat alone in the booth. The jukebox on the other side of the spare room issued no rollicking rock, no beautiful blues, no jumping jazz. It was silent and hulking, half hidden in shadows where lights should be at play.

“My grampa used to own this place.” He looked around, wistful. “I was here a lot as a kid. It was the only way to see my folks.”

He touched my wrist, reminding me of the three-day old bruise residing there. I withdrew my arm and wrapped it around my middle.

“Would you get me something to drink?” I kept my eyes cast down as I made the request.

He grunted something but got up to fetch me a glass of something that sloshed as he set it down.

The glass was heavy, likely an original from when this dump first opened. I took a sip. Lukewarm soda water from the tap behind the bar, I guessed.

“Some ice sure would be good,” I said. “Do you think you could get some for me?”

Another grunt, this time louder, followed by the crack of worn vinyl as he left the bench. Thankfully he was in a solicitous mood.

I slid over, the bench silent under my insignificant frame, and stood. He was just turning toward me when I hit the back of his head with the weighty glass. The tray of shriveled ice he had scavenged from the ancient freezer behind the bar scattered as he slumped and slid toward the floor at my feet, a rivulet of red springing from his scalp.

I turned him over and dug through his shirt pocket for the key to the padlock he’d put on the door. As I wrapped my fingers around it and pulled it free from the cloth his hand closed around my ankle. With my free foot I stomped down on his throat and fled toward the door, turned the key in the lock, flung open the door, and ran to the parking lot.

Nature was in the process of reclaiming the slab of asphalt where cars and trucks had parked before the highway was rerouted. A For Sale sign swung, lopsided, in the hot wind. Storm clouds gathered in the west. I looked at the long stretch of empty road and barren land wondering how far it would be to civilization and whether I had the strength to get there. There was only one way to find out.

I began to run.

 

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.