dangling our bare feet

four in the bed laughing, and my eyes are still closed half sleeping, what’s funny is the poem s is reading aloud, and when c uses his poetry voice, and that we all jumped on each other to wake up early on a sunday, and then everyone’s exclaiming lyrics from songs trying to remember that one about the morning

the dried lilac on the dashboard and the banana peel in the cup holder and the beet juice stain on the steering wheel as i’m driving the back roads, passing the small stretch which curves to the left, down a hill, where the japanese knotweed shines particularly bright green and red growing over the guardrails, threatening to take over the pavement

when we are dangling our bare feet over the dock, the cold water lapping up against our toes, with our shoes and socks strewn on the wooden platform and the hood of my sweatshirt is up, sheltering me from the wind.

a woman runs up and asks, out of breath, in a whisper – did you turn off the tea water before we left?- to the man standing next to me at the concert in the barn and he responds with a firm nod and her face relaxes, because the concert is almost over, the last song is being played, and there would have probably not been any more tea water left.

tambourine-like

 

the frogs in the abandoned beaver swamp
punctuate the otherwise thick silence of saturday morning with their
croaking

i am surprised and pleased when the glass jar half full of quarters nickels and dimes in the passenger door frame (pressed up against the car speaker)
jangles (tambourine-like)
exactly on
beat with the blasting music (bluegrass) as I drive down rt 20 east in the dark

 

 

half unfurled

when the fourth grade girls all swarm in to hug me goodbye just as their teachers are shepherding them onto the bus home after lunch and
one of the girls who had been holding my hand the entire walk from the dining hall says she will never let go, but then she does, and they wave from the bus steps and wave from their bus seats and the engines start and we wave back from the driveway
until the bus pulls out and the wheels turn on the gravel and round a corner, and the trees with their pale green leaves wash them out of sight.

listening to nd practice the ukulele from his room
and kw sneeze from her
nook under the stairs
and hs out by the fire pit putting out the
last of the embers after his grilled steak dinner,
and the rest of them upstairs muffled laughing and moving
chairs, while i sit
still
on the couch near the front door, writing these words.

the cloudy chill that feels like spring is
momentarily
suspended in the half unfurled fiddleheads, and the unopened dandelions
and the one apple tree near the library with blossoms still clasped, hesitating to extend its petals to the world.

light at the back

when in the dream my sister disappears from the station and leaves without me for the train, and i am still at the ticket counter, emptying my pockets, scrambling for a photo id, and i can’t find my red backpack, no not that one, i say to the lady at the desk, almost in tears when she offers assistance, and then i am yelling
at everyone, and i am late,
for the train.

as many colors in spring as there are in fall, someone in the circle says and I find myself nodding, agreeing, especially aware of the reds and pinks and whites and greens and soft hues of colors i didn’t know were different from each other until they popped up side by side a few weeks ago.

sitting next to all the seedlings at the living room window before bedtime,
parsley
rainbow chard
mixed greens
pickling cucumbers
and
black plum
tomatoes,
talking to nd and kw about death and
dying,
feeling the tang of raspberry sorbet still on my tongue
and the intensity of the
overhead light at the
back of my eyeballs.

stuffed under

how I feel like i’m at the corner of may

how the leaves on the trees look like unfurling umbrellas,
or

like the wet wings of butterflies just after they leave the cocoon.

heavy.
(with possibility)

how my sense of smell is lost
for several days
stuffed under the couch of a cold
and I exuberantly (and perhaps deliriously) spread (way too much) thieves essential oil blend on the
bottoms of my feet
for the sake of immunity.

more than one or two people at the party ask surprised DO you smell that? what is that? when we walk into a room and i can’t help but
burst out laughing.