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Still the Heat

In this protracted dry heat the birds hop

about, their thin beaks open, panting.

The Cooper’s hawk flies down, perches

on my neighbor’s low roof and stands

with wings spread open drooping like a tent.

The stream that runs along my yard is dry and dusty

so I’ve put a dish of water out, a makeshift birdbath

though I’ve not seen any bird using it.

We are to expect no relief any time soon

just the welcome setting of the sun each evening

and the rise of the perfect moon untouched

by the vagaries of weather here on Earth.

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If It’s Real

I have finished that book with its tender characters

so real and fleshy that I worry now

what will become of those two kids?

And that boy living with his grandfather?

The two girls whose father left them?

I know somewhere that these are only characters in a book

but also too that their real-life counterparts are out there

and as they say in therapy If it’s real to the client, it’s real.

And so–Joy Rae, I hope you make good choices in life

and you too Richie and Dena and Emma and DJ

all so young and with so little to hold onto.

Hold on.

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Wild Bergamot

The wild bergamot I have noted

is a lovely shape for a hat

a squat thing with crazy skinny

plumes erupting from its top

a lavendar color that while nice

for a flower would have to be changed

to red or black possibly purple

but the shape oh the shape cries out

to be made into a hat!

Alas I am no hatmaker

though my long gone

Great Aunt Elizabeth

did go to millinery school

according to my grandmother

because she talked too much

in regular school and was kicked out

finishing only the sixth grade.

I would like to know now if this story

is true but there is no one left to ask

and now I note with some longing

that wild bergamot is a very lovely

shape for a hat and if I were a

hatmaker I would certainly make one.

 

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The Dance Card

At the estate sale I bought a young woman’s

dance card from a formal dance of the

Theta Chapter of Kappa Kappa Gamma

dated February first, 1915.  More than a card

it is a small booklet on a string with five

pages and a brass mesh cover, the

facing pages listing Engagements

and Dances with the names of the

musical numbers printed out

Ballin’ the Jack, The High Cost of Loving,

It’s a Long Way to Tipperary, 

When Grown Up Ladies Act Like Babies

and to end the evening, Good Bye, Boys.

The young men’s names are pencilled in:

Mr. C. Avery, Mr. Mann, Mr. Cook and

on line 13 the underlined note I kissed him

with his name given only as XXX.

Well well well!  What might the chaperones

Mrs. Bella Kirkbride and Miss Fannie Sanders

have thought of that?  And why did

this young lady keep her beau’s name a secret?

And whatever became of him?  Of her?

Of Mr. Mann, Mr. Cook Mr. C. Avery

and all the others she’d written down?

They are all certainly long gone now never

imagining that a perfect stranger would

one day wonder about their lives and loves

about who and what they became

whether they lived happily ever after

somehow escaped the ravages of war

or more likely died young and bewildered

in a foreign country a lifetime away

from formal dances no chaperone

to keep them out of harm’s way.

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Oh For Some Rain!

Searing heat blankets my town

no rain of any sort on the horizon

the creek (what’s left of it) lying

still as death a thin film on its surface.

These late June days are longer than

I remember the sun high and hot

for hours and hours and though I love it

and even embrace the challenge of

shouldering through as if facing a

monumental onslaught of snow and ice

stocking up groceries and staying put

indoors for the duration I do hope

for a giant swashbuckling storm to roll

rollicking over the hills and bluffs

inciting the creek to riot upon its banks

a wind making everything twirl and dance.

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Leaving the Nest

Young hawk has left the nest perhaps

only for a trial flight but I hear it crying

at the front of the house this morning.

When Peter stood for the first time

on his own clinging to the edge of the

toy box he turned to me with a look of

panic at what he had done.  What now?

his small face seemed to ask.

A writer I admire died last night

left this world I hope without panic

though she loved all that it held.

I hold now to her earlier advice

about knowing what you love so

that you can do a great deal of it.

Peter now moves easily through the world

India China Africa Iceland Europe.

The hawk will one day leave the nest forever

soar and wheel as its parents do now.

And I?  I will continue to write.

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The Wisdom of Dogs

Breakfasting on wild blackberries plucked on the fly

as I follow the familiar path, my two reckless dogs

barreling ahead turning now and then to make sure

I am still coming along, their rows of teeth

making crazy grins.  Come on! they seem to say

for they have no interest in blackberries or wildflowers.

They don’t even know it’ll be a short walk today,

things to do, places to go, people to see, but still

for them, every moment counts.  Come on! 

Something great might be around that bend!

Come on!  And I do, I follow, knowing

full well that they are right.

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Anon

Driving home past fields of corn

lush in the slant of evening light

the swell of the hills beyond

green peace-filled soft earth

this hot day’s clouds stretched thin

across the wide expanse of sky

the occasional hawk wheeling overhead

the long highway rolled out empty before me

it is easy to reverence this place Earth

this glorious imperfect Life

this one true life slipping along

as it does following a road

the sun setting red and huge

no matter what I do or don’t do

the moon appearing a white crescent

just there as it will

a delight no matter

what tiny things

I say or do or think or feel

driving down the road

thinking my thoughts

recalling perhaps other

such graceful evenings

such but never the same

as All moves along

and along taking me

and you and all of us

forward ever anon.

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The Watercolorist

A man 91 years old with a broken hip

barely able to get into the seat of his van

sits in a booth at an art show selling

his beautiful watercolor paintings

out of cardboard boxes for fifteen dollars.

They shame anything I could do.

Fat Dutch irises bloom on a sheet

splashed with color.  Bouquets of

I Don’t Know What in round vases.

Landscapes and barns.

He can probably do them in his sleep

my neighbor says.

You’re 91 and you’re doing art shows?

I ask, incredulous.

Art shows have been good to me

he says and I, chastened, vow never

to complain of the heat, the rain,

the difficulty ever again.

Knowing full well that I will.

Forgiving myself in advance.

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Strange New Doings

Strange new things afoot in the world

new and inconceivable imaginings

even doings taking place right here

right now in the very same world

I inhabit in this very same time.

Delightful plots and schemes unfold

in the brains of jolly scientists who

seem to believe that anything they

dream up could be possible after all

and who go about proving it

with great aplomb while I gape

astonished.