The Home of Patience – 5 poems
Morning Visitor
A little sparrow
sits head-deep in slender grass
beyond my window
tapping at the earth
up and down, up and down that
tiny head pursues
plunder of insects
in wonder of her rhythm
feathery cover.
Beyond my window
a world awaits, another
morn still dawning.
As I tap into
my own store of memory lore
of those times before
when I was the small
one tapping through each morning
persistent as this
visitor ~ within ~
unearthing what is wanted
life for one more day.
I visited you
in that room too bright to see
the long corridor
the two of us would
tread in days ahead, the past
unrecoverable.
I, the reminder
then for you of who you were
still, beneath those sheets.
Yet, today you sit
beyond my window listening
as the sparrow sings to us.
Our Trees Our Forest
Curves grow shorter as
we climb into what my dad
calls the widening sky ~
what I know he means ~
his true sense of going home
where wonder rises
all around, like pines
and oaks, the hickories too
secure in rooted
place. Wooded forest
where children play at discovery
imagine lizards ~
dragons come to greet
them ~ once again upon return
to trees and forest
becoming home, sure
to them as to their Dad who
once imagined them.
Apology Due ~100% certain
Routines abide now
in our days, long and airy,
every hour our own.
Still we set schedules
as if we had a busy life
requiring order.
At noon we may be
found in the café, lining
up to push our tray.
His one handedness
hinders only the carrying
which I easily do.
Everyday the same ~
he sets tray with silverware
on salad bar slides.
From the hot-line I
spoon his favorites onto plate
he then carries off
while I make salads
select colored nourishment
place plate on our tray
before filling cups,
choosing desserts from cooler
and joining him at
our table. Always
in our chosen corner spot
unless we are late.
Then kindness wins and
we sit, in our good spirits,
in some other space.
Today at the bar
I watched Bob, heard him ask his
wife where their tray was,
pointing at mine. I
spoke quickly, “don’t be getting
my tray,” lifted it.
Still miffed by my own
sharp words I told Ron of Bob’s
confusion about trays.
Ron puzzled, pointed
out to me that we had three
sets of silverware.
Now I was the one
trapped in her own routines
betrayed by memory ~
Just yesterday I
asked Ron to quit putting our
tray out. He had.
Coming Round Again
Little duck
Mallard, solitary one
on the pond today~
eyes watching
nothing more to do
than listen ~ look up ~
from the shaded cove
Little bird
brown-headed nuthatch
another day with
nothing more to do
than love the world
beneath blue sky spread wide
scent of presence here
Little buzzing bee
honeysuckle, jasmine,
roses in all hues
opening up for you
with nothing more than
sips and slips, to pass
so much life along
Little steps
that brought me near
camellias falling through
spun air of spring
days growing longer
one by one
revolving source of wonder
Stone Patience
Early morning on the floor,
curling into myself
imagining if I am small enough
there will be no room
for ache or groan –
no way a scream can gather
itself into a sound
huge enough to summon him.
Let him sleep until
I discover what is wrong
inside.
Mute and limping,
he can do nothing
to help me.
His empty stare,
a quizzical appeal, would
be for me to manufacture
both his question and
my answer, which I can not
imagine
through this wave of pain.
Later I would learn
about the tiny grit,
calcification that moved
into a passageway
never built to carry
anything except a
warm golden flow.
On the floor holding tight
to my fright that night
praying morning come
more quickly than the soft click
the clock brought.
The clock…
What time it is?
Where is the phone?
Can I wait?
And I close tighter,
lean into the coolness of the tile
accept my position,
fevered cold
the whole.
I am silent, silent, silent,
until dawn and a daughter’s voice
answering my ring.
“Come – sick…”
She knows not to make
me say more.
How does she know? I pause.
There could be a long answer
but now is not the time.
She is familiar
with his muted stance,
years of her life too
without his voice –
but mine
so often heard,
now a rasping force of words
squeezed out of patience
still hoping for a bit more.
