Missing Mom

It was on a Wednesday, I recall, when last I saw your face,
the sweet lines of it, the twinkle of your eyes,
and the crescent of your smile
that lighted the room
like a full moon.
I miss you.
I do.

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December 29

Gray pencil trees sketch shadow clouds

On a late December sky,

While the wind waits with baited breath

And the palest of yellow suns peers serenely

Unafraid at the mounting bank of gray

That gives truth to the forecast

Of snow before morning.

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Daybirth

sunrisefrosty

Morning

tucks the moon in her pocket,

catches the stars in a jar,

shakes the darkness from her hair,

exhales a frosty breath,

and smiles.

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OLD-FASHIONED

I’m an old-fashioned girl
living in a new-fashioned world.
I like flannels and jeans,
not stiletto high heels.
Give me coffee with cream,
no fancy lattes for me.
Wood fires and old dogs,
you can keep those big Harley hogs.
I prefer my red tractor,
not a Porsche admirer.
Some say I’m stuck in some other time,
That might be true,
and if so that’s just fine.

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Eclipse

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I picked sweet white grapes,

crunched a ripe yellow apple,

and stared heavenward

to watch the moon cross over the sun,

her pale face invisible in his white heat.

Yet still she put out his fire,

or most of it, for a few minutes of this day,

darkening earth and quieting the birds,

just as she has countless times over countless years

as people made sacrifice, built temples,

raised voices in song and fear,

watched the birds and the waters

for signs of great portent.

Sol’s chariot soon appeared once again,

as it always has,

as far back as we know,

and rode triumphant in the blue

while the moon, shy docile creature,

returned to daytime anonymity.

I was soaked with sweat,

watching the show in an open field,

eating my golden grapes and white apple flesh,

and over me washed the peace of knowing

that this too shall pass,

that life will go on and the moon and stars

and sun will continue on their paths,

just as they always have,

and I shall continue on mine

for such time as is allotted me,

and this is right, and good.

 

 

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Celestial Affair

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Luna slips by Sol

silver gown over fiery face

and two become one

 

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Poling Down the River

Poling down the river,

under hanging silver trees,

the moon is full and shining,

shining down the river,

down the Ohio.

 

Sliding down the river

on a watery path of stars,

bonfire on the bankside,

fireflies in the reeds,

a banjo picks a lonesome song,

a tenor voice joins in,

Singing down the river,

down the Ohio.

 

Following the waters

beneath a midnight moon.

Swaying, swinging, moving slow,

 

dancing down the river,

down the Ohio.

 

Listen to the hoot owl,

to the nightbird’s golden call,

to the slapping, slipping current

as the water moves along,

listening down the river

down the Ohio.

 

Day will soon be breaking,

pink will stain the stars,

the heron and the eagle

will soon be after prey,

the moon will be a memory,

and we will all be sleeping,

sleeping down the river,

down the Ohio.

 

 

 

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