My love is like the red, red berry
oh, no, that’s not how it goes
but the profligate rouge of this creekside cherry
serves notice to the red, red rose.
With apologies to Mr. Burns.
Monthly Archives: November 2016
Connections: November 29.16
Gathering its lavender
pinning it with gold
autumn day retires
iridescently furloughed.
Thanks more to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
Vagaries in Gestation: November 28.16
Yesterday I drove to the park and, as always, slowed on the adjacent street, where little wiggly people are unloaded from back seats. A car at the curb had its doors open on the street side, so I stopped and waited.
A man stood at the side of the car, arm outstretched, helping someone out. Not a wiggly little person but a ponderously slow older person. A woman. Bundled warmly against the November day, she held his hand tightly. I caught only a brief glimpse of her but I knew. I knew those blank eyes and that empty face. I knew that slight curl inward. I couldn’t swallow because of the lump in my throat and I couldn’t see because of the tears. It all comes back so quickly.
I walked around the park and so did they. No. They did not walk. She moved her feet in that familiar shuffle, achingly slow, leaning hard on him. His baby steps described patience beyond words. Twice I noticed that they stood in embrace, she apparently clinging to him.
There was a slight wind, causing tears to run down my face. I tasted their salt and was grateful for the release.
Caregiving and dementia change people so I cannot say if he were husband or son, but I think son. I think the husband was at the playground with a little granddaughter, he seeking respite which isn’t because there is no respite from dementia. It is merciless in its constancy and as steely cold as the water in the creek.
I stood over the creek yesterday and thought about the cold water that runs through life and the daunting aloneness of those who stand firm in it.
Connections: November 27.16
While winter creeps in
cold and unfeeling
the pet bougainvillea
cavorts to the ceiling
scoffing at frost
in leafy profusion
flaunting its tentacled
optical illusion.
More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives
and applause for the D.J.Berg Green Thumb.
Connections: November 26.16
Now has the grey come
and the year
heavy-lidded
drowses.
Crying of want
a solitary bird
spreads black wings
over silent houses.
Connections: November 24.16
Ah, the blessed smells
of drumstick, onion, sage!
Heady kitchen air
sets Thanksgiving stage.
Last year’s turkey fumes
ignited my writer’s brain
so I’m posting last year’s ballad
on my blog again:
HAPPY THANKSGIVING, DEAR READER!
Connections: November 23.16
C is for Cookie
the monster’s crumbed ditty
but it might be for Cloud or maybe for City.
Whatever.
I missed it
because the lights were so pretty.
(Did you see it, dear reader?)
More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
Connections: November 22.16
When planting a granddaughter
take utmost care
let the roots
grow everywhere
fertilize with traditions
from Grandma’s haversack
but mostly give her space
and just stand back.
Connections: November 21.16
De rigueur, I’m told, is the bottle flip
ah, the wastrel wayward ways of youth
they should be productive as we were
and pack themselves in a telephone booth.
Connections: November 20.16
This was my look
yesterday
as I stared out the window
in flannel’d dismay
at snow mixed with rain
shot like a sneeze
by a roaring cold wind
in a straight-line freeze.
From seventy degrees
to this? Overnight?
Ma Nature’s sense of humor
is seriously impolite.
Thanks yet again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives, Vernon Hill Gallery.
Oddments 