Abundance on the Patio

Abundance on the Patio

Petunia blooms spill
over edges that cannot
contain such splendor

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Slow Starts, Alone at Times at Sixty-nine

 

I find myself searching

for the memory of an hour,

times once ours alone.

 

I linger

as I extend my hand

to engage the ignition of my car.

 

This car—

not the one then

that bore us everywhere

before the future moved us on.

 

I sit. My hands caress

the thickness of this wheel,

my mind imagines smoothness

through the turns all made back then—

 

    music streams transported

    the two of them—

    becoming one breath

    breathing in an afterglow.

 

Perhaps I long for forty-two.

 

Perhaps I’m blessed, me passing

memory tests like this.

 

Perhaps I’ll linger once again

in the slow-fading of

an afternoon.

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Circles

Walking after dinner
    astounded by slow-rising
globe, swollen golden load.

Circling  the pond amidst
   reflection’s glimmer, I

follow the growing glow.

Moonlight pressing round

    inflames my feet, moves

me home to one who waits.

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About Renewal

About Renewal

(new one Years after the Stroke, days….)

hard to know
who had the most faith that day
we exchanged one dry Christmas tree
for ten bare sticks
traveled home to plant them
in the hard yard

then
watered, waited, wondered
at the hopelessness
of what we were about

yet today
birds sing from
ten generous red maples
lifting their limbs
into blue sky
of our smiles

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If Only

If only

 

she had considered

the future cost she’d pay

for walking four inches taller than she was

 

Had she thought to measure

and select only a perfect fit

instead of the flashy colors, the pointed toes

her old woman feet

might yet be free

to move easily across the lawn

or into town

 

But, if only being what it is,

today she sighs and sits

with only her pen

to move her in and out

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Should Forever Come

I awake as light spills in
hear water splash the basin
and imagine your attention
to your face, lathering and shaving

I curl around my pillows
draw yours closer, listen
as your wing-tip shoes brush
the plush beige rug                     

Morning sleepy head, you say
and bend to give a kiss
as I rush a smile into your wide embrace
press my palm into your
yellow tie
         
Ready for your morning meeting
yet
you’re not moving
toward the door…

Later                                          
after you are gone
I know that should I have a million days
ten million nights, I will forever
know the touch yellow silk

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Finding Home in the summer of 1948

Finding Home in the summer of 1948

 

Parked beneath the wash of shade

our parents saw a place

they might plant themselves

kneel and call home,

for four of us waiting

beneath the arch of ancient oak

sheltering this stretch of road

on Clairemont Avenue in

Decatur, Georgia

 

I was not yet six, my sister

Carol turning four next week

And we were in intense

Negotiations in the back

For who would hold the doll

Who only fold the clothes

 

We didn’t care what the pair

up front thought they sought

though they found it there

that Sunday morning, observing

church folk ambling in between

the high reach of white columns

some organ streaming out

filling up the air, refrains

chiming repeatedly the hour

calling all come in, come

home to some sweet sanctuary

 

Peace and safety for a life

For us

Might be found in this spot

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Growing Pains

 
Growing Pains

Water seeped in again—
mud-mess in the auditorium.
The temporary corridor
too cold, too hot,
too difficult for those
too old to climb the steep incline
on their return
after dinner.

Everyone impatient
for renovation’s finish
except for me.

I don’t care about the mud,
the heat, the climb,
the dust that never settles.

When this construction ends
there will be room for us
to move from this remote cottage
to an inside apartment
where we’ll walk the halls
to meals,
never needing to go outdoors.

In time
they’ll find
memory has erased
what was intolerable.

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At Eighteen

At Eighteen

 

It was 1960

when  I thought to stretch

my world, lengthen my tether

to  the others in my home,

not yet ready for me to be gone,

not yet sure I meant my smile

about the three hundred miles

to that school south and so far.

 

It was 1960

and I was moving on

ready to sing my solitary songs

and think my own thoughts

unaware that it would be a long time

before I discovered I was

my mother and dad and

longer still before gratitude grew.

 

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Long Playing

Long-Playing

I’m holding a record album

entitled Legendary Performers,

a vinyl classic, some cello music spun

years before this memory appears.

I was passing forty-six that year,

entering the middle ages

without a friend,

enduring an unending struggle,

something to do with what love was

and what love wasn’t.

I had two energetic daughters,

a husband muted and paralyzed by stroke,

an impressive career with two thirteen-story towers,

53 employees and 458 residents.

I had colleagues, board members, regulatory overseers,

architects and contractors, maintenance

experts and fund development gurus.

But until the afternoon she came,

I had no confidant, no giddy laughter,

no one to muse about the day, sip coke

out there, somewhere beyond responsibility.

She walked into the dreary circle

we called a support group for survivors,

each one taking their usual turn to say

what was most difficult with

their chronically dependent spouse.

 

Why had I come again?

Where was the support?

I wasn’t listening to their stories,

so much the same, not as my own perhaps, but

the same as the month before,

and back and back…

 

How long had I been coming?

two years now – six – thirteen?

How many times had I vowed

never to return?

And in she came carrying her instrument.

All talking ceased as eyes focused on

this petite black-haired woman,

as she gently placing her huge case

in the far corner beside the table

with the drying donuts.  Their eyes

followed her to the single empty seat,

their faces intent with a solitary question

which won out in some odd spoken unison,

“What —  is —  in —  that?”

“Oh!” she said, looking back

to the gleaming curve of that cello case.

“That’s my husband. 

I have to take him — you know —

where ever I go.”

A startled gasp leaked into the room,

as she dropped unconcerned into her chair

and I clamped my hand across my mouth

to contain the laughter loosened by some

unspoken secret between us now.

Eleven concerned faces stared at her.

Leaving one’s spouse inside a case

was serious and not condoned. Leaving

him in the parlor staring at TV

was however acceptable.

I stilled my face, yet uncertain,

thinking I was mistaken, when Rosa asked,

“How can he breathe?”

I laughed because I couldn’t hold it back,

because this woman named Renata

had demonstrated something I had

not dared to speak.

I laughed because she didn’t know

I intended to join her and her cello,

spend other afternoons giggling

taking irreverence seriously, listening

to this sound, like balloons rising, strings let go,

floating soft and free.

Renata had her turn to smile

as I chased her and her cello,

through the parking lot,

my high heels sticking

in the softened asphalt

of that Georgia summer day,

me calling, “Wait, wait,

we’ve got to talk.”

For years we talked and listened

let that cello smooth a ragged phase.

We are legendary performers,

long-playing roles of lovers

wives carrying what we won’t put down,

smiling in the space that laughter opens

in the heart of speaking yes

to what is impossible

holding all we yet possess.

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