Thanksgiving Day and my sweet black dog
wakes me just in time to see the miracle of
sunrise a stunning display of orange pink blue
on this morning, the dawn itself so ephemeral
that as I drift a moment or two, poof! the
brilliance has passed. Left with what could
be termed normal if such a word applies to
anything as miraculous as morning, I rise
to make my tea and the dogs go out into
the yard as if no magic has occurred.
Fog covers the town this morning
a not usual thing for us and thus notable.
But what shall I do with that fact besides
note it, write it down, perhaps make a poem
of the moodiness, the hiddenness, the mystery?
Love it, I suppose. Just love it along with each
other turn of nature: the pour of rain, the fall
of snow, the sprinkling of stars, the beams of sun.
All worth noting, all worthy of love.
Great Aunt Emma’s ring sits in a red box on a small table in my room.
I am afraid to wear it, worried it might slip off my finger and be lost forever.
Our biggest family heirloom, it was given her by her married lover
a man with whom she traveled, we’re told, and she herself never married.
When she died the ring went to Great Aunt Nancy and then
to her daughter Shirley whom I never met and finally to my mother
and now to me. Unmarried, my sisters said. You should have it.
For I, too, am unmarried many years.
We girls never knew Aunt Emma, certainly never knew
the man she loved. Nor do we know any of the delicious details,
whether he was handsome or good or rich, where and how
they went about together and if his wife knew and what then.
How long did it go on and did Aunt Emma have other beaus?
Were there passionate, tear-filled rows, moonlit nights,
secret rendezvous, vows to give the whole thing up?
The photo I have shows a pretty, possibly mischievous
though not particularly elegant woman in spectacles
and a high-necked dress with a proper lace collar.
No hat with feathers, no diamond earrings, nothing flashy.
No siren, no Sarah Bernhardt, no flamboyant bon vivant.
She probably even wore serviceable shoes.
The mysterious, the enigmatic, the great
Great Aunt Emma.
We’ll not go to the woods today
my stalwart dogs and I
yesterday’s bad incident
having given me the heebie jeebies
and I having made what I believe
to be every possible mistake
cannot quite resolve the thing.
I’d like the other dog banned
from our favorite place
shipped off to a farm
somewhere far from here.
I’d like to rest plainly in the knowledge
that every mean-spirited dog would be
rebuffed from us by an invisible forcefield
radiating out in a comfortable golden circle
of protection forever & ever.
Amen.
Do we ever (let’s just think about this)
truly understand one another or are we
always just a half step off key however
unknowingly a shade sharp a little flat
missing a beat or two maybe a whole bar
perhaps even changing from
three four to four four and while we’re at it
putting our own fine tuning to dynamics
(maybe a crescendo just there)
altering the tempo to suit the mood
adding an introduction perhaps a coda
writing variations on the theme or
what the heck changing the theme itself
ultimately hearing a tune that is no longer
the other’s but fully our own.
My grandmother’s birthday falls today.
She would be 116 years old
a good long span of time for anyone.
As it was she died at 86, prompting
my own mother’s vow to surpass
her in age. And that she did
by nearly a decade, prompting my
vow to go at 82, which leaves
(at this writing) twenty one years
to live fully and well, twenty one
years to figure out the basics of
happiness
forgiveness
compassion
fulfillment.
A tall order I realize but then maybe
I’ll be ready next go round
to tackle higher aims.
This day like every other
presents itself without guile
arms wide with full permission
for whatever any one chooses
(small or large)
and isn’t that marvelous?
A window through which any one
might look, lean or climb
depending upon their predilection
each to her own intention
every choice as splendid
as every other.
Fall’s chill enlivens
Sunshine now our welcome guest
Tapping at the door.
Let us frolic like dogs
turned loose in a wood
tearing down the path
ears flying back
pearls of teeth
in a crazy grin
tongue flapping
since we cannot
possibly
give two hoots
who thinks what
only to be
stopped up short
as we zoom by
whatever
tantalizing
piece of thing
suddenly
presents itself.
And let us
give ourselves
wholly then
to each of those
bits of the world
before dashing
off once more
in pursuit of
whatever else
might present
itself.
Today is the day the ginkgo tree will lose all its leaves.
It began yesterday a shower of yellow on a sunny day
a fall of bright fans filling that corner of the yard
and I have learned that it is usual for the ginkgo
to lose all its leaves in a span of twenty four hours.
Very soon now it will be left standing
bare resolute proud in a pool of yellow
while its comapnion pin oak clings to all its leaves
well into winter never having learned, it seems,
the art of letting go.