melt

white terry robe of snow
slowly sliding south
down the shingles

the eave’s nurtured icicles
drip
drip
dripping

white terry robe haunting the kitchen
slowly sliding south
down morning’s conjecture

the counter percolating coffee
drip
drip
dripping

You walk in
Blink
I melt

Good morning, you

Blink

Ride The Wrong Train

“Be aware of your surroundings.”
“Wait, slow down.  We need to know where we are going.”
“Let me look at the map.”

There is a push for every pull.
There is a strangle hold for every soft touch on the shoulder.
There is longing with every release.

Ride the wrong train.
Walk down a different street.
Rush, the days can be short.

Dec. 23.  I throw on yesterday’s clothes and rush out the door.  I am not even sure where I am rushing, because I am not even sure where the path begins to the place I am rushing to, but I have purpose and adventure on my mind.  I rush.  I can’t remember if I bothered to brush my teeth before I adventured.  Dec. 23 is one of the shortest days of the year, and I was not worried about anything else, except this:

 

 

I did not remain aware.  I did not know where exactly I was going.  I most certainly did not look at a map.  And, (drumroll, please), I had no idea which path led back to the rental house once my escape, err, beach walk, was over. But I most assuredly resolved not to tell my “pay attention to your surroundings” husband (who was probably just getting out of bed) about my, uh, path finding folly.

The steps that lead to the public access parking lot, and a westward walk on the road was my choice to wend my way to the rental house.  On the third step I find a large whelk.  A real beauty.  I pick up the shell, and the creature inside is wiggling.  I wish I had taken a picture, but I considered this situation a sea creature emergency. Here I go rushing again…I ran back to the water and pitched the shell back to the sea to what I hope will be a long, satisfying whelk life.

Maybe I should have explained to that wiggling creature to be more careful and aware of its surroundings.  The public access steps, or the public, in general, is no good place for a whelk, but on Dec. 23, it was surely a good place for me.

 

Undulate

1 Haiku/Identity

Rye bread, sunny day
Strawberries and sandwiches
Old friends, sweet silence

 

Identity

Master Gardener

Plowing through another separation
the paragon of letting go
grows into some
silent master gardener
farming good-byes.
So
the dog and I walk
around the lake
thinking a tick might attach itself
and maybe want to stay.

Paragon

Poem In Your Pocket Morning

Put this poem in your pocket, I say
He looks at me
patient
tolerant
amused
Like you would look at some docile crazy person

My husband analyzes profit statements
not poems
My husband writes spreadsheets
not essays
My husband attends conferences
not readings

But, oh, he reads me
and slides the poem in his briefcase

You Gave Them To Me

It’s better to descend than ascend.

So first you must reach the top and claim victory.

Nope, victory is overrated.
Besides, who says victory is at the summit?

I agree “summit” is a state of mind; however, the high road provides the best view.

The high road is windy and cold.  Stay below for the bright forsythia and green moss.

There is great comfort in closeness and confined quarters, but it is the horizon that provides direction and is best viewed from an apex position.

The sun rises just over the deck.  No reason to worry about that pesky horizon.

Some see the horizon nearer than others.  The sun rises and starts new each day, climbing high in the sky and only setting when it is time to rest; until rising again.  Climb, Sun.

I see the sunrise on the deck.
The moon, too.
You know why?
Because you gave them to me.
All of them.
Sun, clouds, wind, stars…
All mine.
From you.
Time to climb in bed…

Climbing

Santa Claus Knows Best

Do you know what I wrote on Sunday?  I wrote how my husband makes me smile and feel beautiful.  You know how long I have been married?  29 years.  My husband is kind, sweet, caring, and, yeah, he makes me feel mushy inside.  Do you think our 29 years together have been complete bliss?  Ha!  You bet, but every year right after Thanksgiving an insidious tune slithers into my otherwise delightful existence.

From Thanksgiving to Christmas I am married to 2 men– my legal spouse and Maurice Chevalier.  My otherwise sensible, responsible, trustworthy and analytical man loses his mind over a song about Johnny wanting a pair of skates.

Ron sings, in the worst French accent, with Mr. Chevalier.  “Lean your ear this way.”  Ron sings, in the worst French accent, without Mr. Chevalier.  “Susie wants a sleigh.”  Ron sent me a YouTube video of  “Jolly Old St. Nicholas”, so I would not forget my second, albeit temporary husband, Mr. Chevalier.

To maintain a marriage for the long term, well, you kinda, hafta, need to overlook your partner’s idiosyncrasies.  Now, Ron got lucky.  I have no ill manners or quirky, irritating peculiarities.  But to preserve my stable, loving union, I tolerate Ron’s perpetual allegiance to “Jolly Old St. Nicholas.”  My advice to you, dear reader, is if your partner begins singing in an awful French accent, beware, because Maurice Chevalier may soon follow.  It is not so bad if you want skates, a sleigh or a book with yellow, blue and red, because dear Santa Claus knows best.

Record

There Is No Pattern

 

 

 

 

Do you know what the pattern is?  No, you do not, because there is no pattern.

You graduate from college a semester late.  Your mother angrily advises you not to marry him, but you get married anyway.

The promotions come.  Melbourne, Richmond, Bartlesville, Jackson, Memphis.  Until the closures come.

You never really wanted a baby (gasp), but there she was, all puffy and pink and amazing.

You quit work and threw yourself into motherhood with conviction and desperation to craft every detail perfect, sublime and well groomed.

But here’s the thing.  Your hair is turning white.  That man you should not have married still makes you smile and feel all beautiful inside.  And that amazing baby is a way more awesome young woman.

When you think it is Spring
It snows
Big, beautiful, sparkly flakes float down from Heaven
There is no pattern
All we really get is love.

 

 

Pattern

Early Flight

Something comfortable
About
Old friends in a long marriage

Stay
You say
We can do anything

There is nothing
In that anything
I want

Everything turns
To no-thing
When your plane leaves at 6 am

At Kroger

The store was full of shiny balloons, decadent chocolates and lush bouquets in advance of Valentine’s Day.                           

My pocketbook was flush enough that I bought a plane ticket to visit my crush…of 29 years.

Honestly, it never gets old.


Love is all around
Under the helium
Standing resolutely in a pot
Hoping, expecting, to be chosen

 

 

 

 

 

 
Lush