poetry

Summer Morning

There's a lull from the
living room
They've settled back into
a perfect groove
though at any moment the
excalation will begin with a
whine and a cry and a
Nooooo!

So I'll pull myself from
this view of June green,
hot coffee,
soft egg
and ask with calm and
cheer, What's going on?

Something ridiculous, nonsensical
about mine or yours will
come back at me
Elie articulate and authentic,
Solomon wild and tempered
I never get the whole story,
not that I need it.

And the day will press
forward, a continual round of
moments to be mortalized
their eyes when they
first greet the day
the way her hair looks
curls stuck soft,
his pillowy cheeks,
flat feet on hardwood.
The litany of requests...
Eggies?  Oatmeal?  Water...
and my slippers scuff too,
I begin my dish dance,
my egg crack ballet,
breath by breath
in this full, full life.

June Sunday

I know once summer
really arrives,
I'll miss these damp mornings.
When the town goes brown,
my mountain so glorius
right now, wild with
lupine and sheep and the lone horse,
abandon and appreciation
up from the earth.
Remember us?
Everyone shouts
my hands splintered
from pulling weeds,
the dandelions that infiltrate
this loud, busy road,
cars spewing forth
all over my garden
like foul language.

We worked out there,
Elie and I,
on Father's Day.
She'd haul piles of weeds
to the bin until
something caught her
fancy, a make-shift
balance bean or
an old pair of cross-country
skis, pulled from the
garage while I was embedded
in roots and briars,
she shuffles like a
circus performer
up the hot sidewalk.
Bye, Mom!  I'm going skiing now!
And she's off,
scaled bottomw scrape on concrete and
I know I have to tell her
No.
But her moment is so pure, so good with
intention, just a
winter fantasy,
a seasonal remembrance,
while our seasons
again shift.