Reminder

Graying heads still nurture dreams,

Fading eyes still cast a hopeful gleam,

old voices still can sing like angels’ brushing wings,

even when forgotten, and unseen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Toast

bubbly cool frosted glass,

sensory celebration:

champagne sparkles in your eyes.

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Spring Moon

New moon,

tender crescent

luminescent,

gilds

crimson crabapple,

iridescent iris;

quicksilvered oaks whisper

in night breezes

while wood thrush trills

her praise.

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Walk to the River

It is time

to walk to the river

to welcome the past

images small

noticed and told

in simple words

clear thoughts

savored

remembered

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Laundry Lessons

Hanging laundry out to dry requires more thought and care

than simply moving from one white machine to the other

as the electric meter whirls.

Hanging the wash requires coordination

with the one who burns the trash

because  line-dried clothes are supposed to smell

clean and fresh and not like yesterday’s grilled mail.

It requires a weather eye too, gauging whether it might rain

in the next hour or so, and what might happen with the elements tomorrow

and whether to go ahead and do that next load, small though it might be,

because tomorrow might be too late, too wet.

Then there’s the arrangement on the lines:

jeans and sheets on the high end near the poles,

underwear and ladies’ lingerie in the middle too,

socks and small things grouped for easy pinning and removal.

There are bees to watch out for, particularly if the day before

was honey harvest day; there are the wasps

that will start building nests right in your clean clothes

if you leave them on the line too long.

Beware the laundry left hanging overnight, for those  underwear, shirts

and shorts may provide a warm haven for a sleepover

for some biting, stinging thing.

 

Gathering in the dry clothes needs close attention:

folding, neatly piling into the bushel fruit basket

(the only kind for hanging out wash, with its wood-skinned sides

and sturdy wire handles to bring back memories of fifty or sixty years ago

when my sister and I brought in the wash, laughing and talking and quarreling

as we piled the socks and dresses and shirts, diapers and towels and sheets

of fifteen family members into basket after basket).

In winter the clothes will freeze-dry, stiff as a corpse my mother would say

but mostly dry and needing only a little time on a drying rack in front of a fire

to return to a more supple, more living shape.

 

Last and most important is the sorting and putting away,

each pile requiring your nose to be buried

into sweetness that can only be captured

by hanging laundry out to dry on wire lines over green grass

below white clouds, under blue sky in golden sunshine.

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Sunday Dinner Plans

Red-tail cruises low;

his shadow crosses the chicken yard

like a black blessing.

Hens scurry for cover, clucking to tell him,

“No Sunday chicken dinner for you!”

Unconcerned, the hawk soars higher.

Rabbit will do.

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Breakfast

 

Biscuits,

brown-crisp on top,

butter-tender inside,

steam on a blue-flowered plate.

Home comfort.

 

Cinquain form

 

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