Author: Kay Foley

Hush of a hot Sunday morning 
broken by the hum of the air conditioner
and the sudden barking of my ferocious little dog.
He was a stray I always say, as if that might
explain his fierce Napoleonic tendencies.
Minutes tick by as I contemplate leaving
the cool of my house for the buzzing heat
of outdoors.  My church, my temple.
A choir of katydids will offer hymns
as the cardinal delivers his sermon of the day.

The many old possessions of my boys and me
sat waiting in the driveway for new homes.
Piece by piece they went off in the arms of someone new.
The pig-tailed 4-year-old took the mylar wig.
A collector of memorabilia the imperfect frames.
The ugly old table even found a new home.
The space heater, the many bandanas, the 
shells collected at the beach, two old frying 
pans, the Radio Flyer wagon without a handle, 
the broken chair I’d planned to fix, the moon shoes,
the enamel kitchen table like the one 
my grandmother had, the baskets. 
Don’t you want these metal chairs? I ask.
No?  Well, if you change your mind
and come back later, you might find them
on the curb for free!
All these things we once felt we needed
crowded into my basement are now gone.  
I am light and spacious.  Without 
this burden I feel as if I might fly.

My binoculars were a moot point 
hanging heavily around my neck this morning
as is usually true when I think to take them.
Every bird I might like to have seen hid itself away.
Heron, kingfisher, indigo bunting, bluebird, hawk.
Possibly the yellow breasted chat.  
No one came out to play.  
Hoodwinked yet again, I recalled 
the tiresome Buddhist warning
against holding expectations, 
this time in the guise
of a pair of binoculars.

Enchanted by the cool July morning
I dawdled luxuriously at the creek
studying a velvet black winged dragonfly
while my dogs puddled about.

Each day in the woods I must choose.
The narrow path that climbs the ridge
cool and lacy with leaves and spiderwebs?
Or the open paths bordering the meadow
fragrant with bergamot, alive with birds?
Or yet the one the creek makes in its rocky bed
where I might spy a heron or kingfisher?
Each choice I make, even these small ones,
carries a consequence of some sort.  
Each gives me pause and often I let the dogs
choose.  For which prize might I miss if I 
do this rather than that, go this way rather than that?
What magical happenstance lies where in this
short life of mine? 

A pair of deer stood watching me
in a field of grasses and wildflowers
as I came up the path this steamy July morning.
A male female pair, they made 
what felt like steady inquiring 
eye contact with me.
Friend or foe? they seemed to ask.
Had my little dogs noticed them
they might have gotten a wrong idea.

Yesterday I found her early poems 
and the many notes she’d written me 
some twenty years ago stored
in a cardboard box on a shelf
in my damp, moldy basement.
The picture she made for my sons
is dusted with mildew, its colors
running in places, the paper bent.
I will save it nonetheless.
Those were our golden years. 
Two friends set apart in a
rich world of our own making.
Others danced around the edges
but our circle was closed.
Lovers friends distance and dogs 
came and went from our lives.
My sons grew to be men.
Now she is gone and I write
my everyday poems in her stead.

How many times
can the poet write
about the dappled light
the moonlit night
the ocean’s might
the stars so bright
and not sound trite?
How many?

Distracted by the imagined taste
of ripe Farmer’s Market tomatoes
I write poor poems and consider
abandoning my walk in the woods
in favor of rushing out to buy.
Luckily, it is possible to do both
as anyone can know.  Had I not 
gone to the woods I’d have missed 
the perfect morning light dancing 
among the cool leaves 
the bride and groom having their 
cheerful photograph taken on the bridge 
and the contagious exuberance
of my two dogs hurtling down the path.

I wished to see in the woods today the lean red fox alert and watchful
or a barred owl on a limb above staring me down with its terrible black eyes
or a new wildflower nodding lovely on its stem.
I wished for a spark, a beam, an arrow pointed up,
a little smackerel of something that would mean something
on this particular day to relieve my gloom.  
 
Instead what I saw without flinching and
without revulsion was a skinny snake sliding
into the creek from the rocks a step or two from my feet.
Today’s particular grace arrives in the form of a snake!
Or, rather, my acceptance of it.