i.
The cup I hold is
three quarters full;
I want seconds.
ii.
Begging, clutching
what does not yet exist,
moments slipping through.
iii.
Coals glowing,
the fire draws to its end,
swallowed by momentum.
iv.
Cleaning the shed
of leaves once under your feet,
replaced by the breeze.
v.
How many haiku
of sand washing away,
reshaping dunes?
vi.
Words pile up
under our umbrella,
silenced by rain.
She struts ahead of me,
the hem of her black dress
with bunches of pink flowers
swings at mid-thigh,
reminding me of that longer dress,
black with turquoise flowers,
new buttons (one a cameo) and reset seams
I so loved to wear with black tights,
which does not fit anymore
though it remains in the basement
to be pulled out and
questioned each fall,
my hips and middle having
’expanded from child birth,’
as my mother used to say
when she twitched in her skirts —
I never believed her
so do not deserve to believe me.
It is as I notice the half-used
garlic bulb on the window sill,
papers torn and frayed,
that my mind turns to the wild overgrowth
in the woods which we cannot tame,
the constant leaf fall over the deck,
which always needs sweeping,
the fact that you are not here,
and neither is anyone else,
that I again had hoped
to make one more meal,
during which we would be as we are,
and as we so much love to be,
not being willing to admit
what all the evidence made plain,
being left surprised and wounded
that now this house
must be closed up again,
and emptied.
The boy stands and bounces,
holding the edge of the sofa,
humming sloppy raspberries,
grinning,
losing his balance,
bewildered.
The boy stands and swings
across the plate,
adjusting in midair,
stained
with clay and grass,
intent.
The boy stands and shreds,
fingers ripple across the strings,
builds patterns, textures,
stutters,
shifts his arm,
absorbed.
The boy stands and flings
his mortarboard clear to the sky,
turns to remember the boy who cannot,
joining
a sea of others,
uncertain.
The boy stands and leans
into the pressing swells,
taking his chances,
not knowing
what will come,
awakening.
———————————-
My youngest graduated high school this week . . . I think a good mother would have struck a more optimistic tone. But, life is complicated and it is hard not to see that even in the most jubilant of moments.
