Author: Kay Foley

Grey sky.
Chilly rain. Och.
Dismal day for any outdoor art show.
Lovely romantic day for
     writing poems
     baking chocolate chip cookies
     making a towering cake
     cooking a pot of beef bourguignon
     aye, talking like a pirate
     fashioning creatures from keys, beads and boxes
     daydreaming through a pile of old photos
     walking in the dripping woods
     lying on a couch watching old movies. 
Lovely romantic day.
But not for any old outdoor art show.

I dreamed that Pam was back from the dead
for a visit.  We went around the town a group of us 
and everywhere we went we were given
preferential treatment because of her.  
That she was out and about and able to eat 
was itself remarkable.  We knew she would not stay.  
It was only a visit.  She would be dead again soon.

I got up in the night to find she had played 
a trick on me here in this hotel room just 
as I could imagine she would.  
Do I believe in such things?
Or will I decide in the end that I do not?
And say that I dreamed that too?

 

Others now start off to do what I have done for twelve years
and want only to stop doing.  I shake my head in disbelief.  
How could they think of it?
They must be mad.

Two hearts shipwrecked, marooned, stranded on two desert islands
each fashioned makeshift boats and set off for civilization
only to bump ashore of the same hospitable little island
where each decided to stay and make do with only the other for company.
Idiosyncrasies aside, they managed very well in the knowledge that 
Fate (and ocean currents) had brought them together.

Today I offer praise to the wet black branches of the trees
     with their dripping leaves serving little drinks to all the birds
and to the clouds covering up the sun who certainly
     has had a lot to say in weeks past
and to the cottonwood tree a ways off there
     standing tall and magnanimous
and to the barking dogs who exercise admirable restraint
     unlike my own crazy half terrier
and to the makers of pens and paper for giving me
     these simple tools for happiness
and to the barred owl of last night with its strange
     cry and soothing whooo
and last but not least to the open windows of my house
     without whom none of this would be as grand.
Thank you, All.

Early morning light slants across my yard.
Hawk cries north of the house.
Marching band at practice hums in the distance.
Yet this September morning lies still and secretive.
Last night’s harvest moon came and went
     without so much as a HowDoYouDo.
A new day begins.
An ordinary day laid out before us.
People will be born and people will die
     on this day that began in stillness
     and a slant of golden light.
Some will weep in sorrow, others for joy.
The moon continues its travels.
Our world keeps turning.

I have said I did not love the month of September
but once again I stand corrected as the subdued
hum of crickets lays a smooth backdrop to this cool
morning of a day when seasons are slowly turning,
the changes small but there, slow but perceptible.
The air is fragrant with wood smoke and fallen leaves,
their crunch under my foot as pleasing to me now 
as it was when my ten-year-old self trudged off to school.
Children’s voices drift by my house a happy 
reminder that I am not among them, shy, uncomfortable, 
dreading the oppression of the classroom and
the alarming nature of the playground.
No, I am grown now and free to follow my
childlike heart wherever it cares to go.
Ever thankful for the turn of the seasons
the movement of years.

Ten years ago today came the horrible sequence
of events that are now known simply as Nine Eleven.
Before then I could fondly recall this day as the
birthday of a love of mine now married, a father
to two young children.  A man my own boys
loved.  But now his birthday is a day reminiscent 
of tragedy, fear, heroism.  A sea change for us
the privileged and for the loved ones left behind.  
A terrible sea change.  And where we go 
from here remains a mystery.

Life feels full to me at sixty and everybody knows it.
I am old enough to know that anything can
and will happen, that here is no fair or unfair
yet young enough to be filled with wonder
on just about any given day.  Surely, I think 
to myself (possibly naively) I will be able 
to manage any difficulties yet to come.

Do they ever wonder, the birds, why
the blue jay for example has only its
piercing harsh shout while the cardinal
has so many lovely things to say?
 
Do they ever think to themselves
Would you please be quiet?
out there in the trees in the world
of branches and leaves and sky 
and watchfulness and survival?  
Be quiet–I cannot hear myself think!
 
And the blue jays themselves, do they ever
wish they could sing a pretty tune, warble
even just a little, softly coo and murmur, 
call out this way and that?
 
I just wonder.
 
I suppose that what sets the other creatures
apart from us might be their utter
knowledge that how things are is 
how they should be while we struggle 
on and on with desire ambition wish and want.  
The want of things other than how they are.