Oddments

In search of story


9 Comments

Connections: November 22.17

With apologies to Laura Ingalls Wilder, I have dubbed my new home The Little House on the Retention Pond. This is the view from my back door. The previous owner graciously left her swing.

I use the word “home” guardedly. It isn’t home yet. But I am doing the first thing to make it a home: bubbling celery and onion in butter, and simmering giblets. Ah, stuffing.

When I first visited this place and saw the retention pond, my immediate thought was ICK. My second thought was MOSQUITOES! Third, maybe I should see the inside.

But once I’d been glared at by herons and snubbed by ducks, I began to feel I’d been hasty. And once I saw the reflections of the neighbors’ lights at night and the reflections of the day’s lights at dawn, I felt I owed the pond an apology. This little drop of water knows how to throw light around. And I’m a sucker for anything that sparkles.

I don’t know yet if my family will be here for Thanksgiving. What I do know is that I will have turkey and stuffing. And, if I can find the can opener (so far, no luck), I will have canned cranberry sauce. If my family comes, they will bring assorted side dishes which will be served atop festive packing boxes, artfully arranged. The shining water outside will be nicely echoed by the shining plastic drop cloths inside, the ultimate in gracious slip-and-trip living.

Meanwhile, I intend that reflecting is something we will do together, the pond and I.

Happy Thanksgiving, dear reader, from The Little House on The Retention Pond!


4 Comments

Connections: February 19

SANYO DIGITAL CAMERA
Like winter water

mocking the sky

with the truth

of its own dullness.

Like winter water

damned to eternal slowness

seeking

somewhere

to be warmed.

Like winter water

so cold it numbs itself

stops blood

takes breath.

So memory

leaching warmth of the present

with winter water

of the undead past.

Connections


4 Comments

Connections: January 27

SANYO DIGITAL CAMERAIf you are colorless

like death

parchment shade of yourself

suspended

over winter water

— leering mirror

waggly-lined mockery of the real —

bent ever closer

to the purr of cold,

solitary

  unclothed

    but for frost’s wrap,

    rooted in a clay famine

   thick with indifference,

then

you are caregiver.

Warmth and shelter of Denial

hoarded by others,

yours the endless winter of dementia

never

never

 spring.

Connections