There is yearning
in the looking up.
The unattainable,
marbled with secrets,
lures.
The gulls
in swooping arabesque
mock me with their indifference.
But still I reach.
There is that dream —
you know the one? —
Alone,
I soar,
scared and joyful,
lifted not by wings
but
(I think)
by self.
Thanks to photographer S.W. Berg for this beautiful capture.
Saturday I fell. It was a lovely, slow-motion Swan-Lake-type gardener’s fall, complete with watering can, with a perfect three-point landing: one knee and two hands. Except one hand was clutching a rather full and therefore heavy watering can. My knee landed on the sidewalk, where I left a bit of my DNA. My hands landed in the soft dirt of the garden, so that was lucky. It was the weight of the watering can that caused mischief.
It couldn’t have happened in the back yard where only the rabbit would have pointed and laughed. Nope. The front yard. I regained my composure best I could and took inventory of my person. All told, very little damage. You know, of course, that the effects were felt later. Not bad, though. Just enough to advise me not to do that again.
Then Monday the refrigerator came. Late. There were moderate problems. The delivery guys were great. So far I can’t get the drawers to work right. There is mysterious goo seeping out of a hinge.
The painters, long delayed because of our soggy spring and sorry summer, started yesterday on the exterior trim and discovered wood rot so bad that I had to call a contractor. I await his return call.
Meanwhile, the daily goes on. Do we want to know how much time we spend on hold? Is there any way to exact revenge for those recordings? And I’m sneezing my head off. (No loss, you say?) Old age brings allergies?
So when this guy cast his red eye on me and announced himself as the bluebird of happiness I wasn’t buying it. I did, however, hand him a menu featuring hassenpfeffer.
Storm tinctured
ocean plies its blue
like cathedral window
unknowable mystery
ungraspable hue.
Soaring, long-winged birds
marvel in their way
borne on air and wonder
opalescent swirl above
liquid sapphire under.
Many more thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.
In matters of parenting
we have to admit
some things beyond
our control and our wit:
whether two or two hundred,
one will get loose,
another will always
be the caboose.
If you know me, dear reader, you know I do not love these geese.
However, I have to grant they are occasionally hilarious.
PART ONE
I think they look huffy,
a bit high and mighty,
as though family life
is always this tidy.
I think it’s a ruse,
this complacent look,
a portrait for gloating
on their family Facebook.
Such serene air
is hardly the way
most parents spend
a usual day.
So here’s to reality,
mess by the ton:
a whole lot of work,
a whole lot of fun!
A happy day to all who mother!
(And, yes, some days the work:fun ratio is not stellar.)
Two mallards in the pond
are not a sign of bliss
one has staked a claim
the other says it’s his
they cut each other off
in cut-throat promenade
unmindful of how handsome
their St. Patrick’s Day parade.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day, dear reader!
May your emerald top hat shine as bright!
Somewhere in this barrenness
a quickening song is sung
I look hard but cannot tell
where it’s coming from
I cannot see a bird
so could it be the tree
trilling spring’s first music
coloraturally?
