Author: Kay Foley

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.

I would like to pour this radiant day
oh so carefully into a tall decanter
to be taken in small amounts
in future as needed.  And when needed 
I would splash a bit into an old style
champagne glass, the golden bubbles
to float above the rim blooming 
with the fragrance of this perfectly 
magnificent late summer morning. 

Late summer and a yellow story has been written
one about how God flung yellow exuberance
this way and that across the meadows in great poufs higher 
than my head, wider than my arms can reach,
more extravagant than any dream I could ever dream
lovelier than lovely prettier than pretty.
Gone are the purple cone flowers,
the wild petunias, Queen Anne’s lace,
wild bergamot, tall bellflower, germander,
vervain, oh so long gone little blue-eyed Mary!
It is a yellow story now that nobody wrote 
but anyone can read.

Oh voluptuous day!  You are grander than
a market basket overfull with ripe tomatoes
a woman’s hat plumed netted jeweled
a bottle of the finest driest sparkling champagne
a perilously tall cake layered with cream ganache fruit 
      shavings of chocolate
a bed laid with sixteen pillows poufs of comforter
      sheets of perfect cotton
grander even than the Eiffel Tower on a clear
      starry night in April viewed from a
      blue boat on the Seine
      an accordion player perched at the prow
Yes grander than all of this!
Here in our humble town we 
offer a standing ovation.