Nourish

Seven AM rowdy bird screams reverb in the oppressive heat
Blasting unknown calls as others sing secret lyrics.
The chaotic symphony infuses my morning with calm.
Serenity amid the clatter.
The definition of contradiction.

Peace

I dry my seat from overnight dew as
A shaky speckled fawn sniffs
around the edges of the patio below.
Her saddle a constellation of white dots.
White tail flicking intermittently some
unseen fly as she moves out of my
Coffee spot gaze.

Welcome

On this other new dawn the weather is cooler. Relief.
The mother stands in the mulch
Just beyond the pool deck munching grass.
Yesterday’s fawn bounds toward her mom.
Baby’s head under belly tilts, grasping teat,
Sucking hard as her baby tail wags at warp speed.
Rhythmically lifting front hoof in time or excitement,
Like any joyful baby thrilling at mama connection.

Nourish

Pressing

Gleaming purple dream come true
It was the hand brakes that got me
Unconsciously pedaling while braking
Complaining about faulty brakes
Clenched hands battling pressing legs

Do I approve of the press?
The answer is no, of course
Certainly also the answer is moot
Inescapably pressing
The omnipresent foe
And always the hero of my story

Healthy Closet

The 8s, dejected, find themselves stranded
Pitifully pushed out, lost in the dark back
Not rejected entirely, since hope persists

Today 12s prevail large, front and center
They’ve become smug in their prominence
Confident now in their long enduring tenure

Of course it’s true that sporadically tiny 6s
Flamboyantly flourished in the coveted spot
And on rare occasions spunky 4s elbowed in

But rosy glasses cloud the hard to swallow
Truth that the tiny eras of 4s and 6s always
Begin as dark times of grief and searing sadness

In retrospect the stable 12s aren’t all that bad
And sensible 10s are just about perfectly crafted
For a healthy closet’s deep breathing peace

I Do That Too

Because I can answer the questions, I do
Because I can solve the problems, I do

Because I can see my new ex-girlfriend’s mother wilting,
Her shoulders stooped as she begins a diabetic dive,
While her daughter packs boxes, asking which soup
Ladle she can take. “Take them all” I say as I
Prepare her mother a cheese plate with neatly sliced
Cheese and fanned out crackers. I do that too.

Her mother looks from the party plate to my eyes
Sweat on her upper lip from stress and low blood sugar
“You always do too much” she says as she marries a
Slice of cheddar to a Triscuit and takes a bite of relief.

Because I can calm their anxiety, I do
Because I can get it done faster, I do

Because I can hear his tension simmering through the phone
When his proceeds haven’t arrived from the sale that closed
Two days ago, I sit in the theater’s 5th row center seat, clutching
My phone and coordinating a solution. Before the curtain goes up
I text the lawyer and the manager with instructions and suggestions,
Constructing a plan before the lights go dim. I do that too.

Because I know all this, every summer morning I breathe
Crushed lavender buds held to my nose in my cupped hands.

Because I know all this, as often as I can (yes, often),
I escape the phone calls and demands for an hour or two,
While I stroll through gardens of tulips and poppies with
My camera in hand, inhaling beauty and streaming sunshine,
And exhaling worry wrapped in brown paper packages tied
Tight with twine, happily littering the garden’s precious grounds.
Burdens I had accepted are scattered among the tulip petals.

I do that too.

Along the Way

The moon was enormous, yellow and nearly full
Hanging low as I drove pre-dawn to arrive on time
“Don’t be late” so I drove on and stared hard not
To forget that giant magnificent high sky glow

The entire field was bright yellow acre upon
Acre covered with sun-colored wall-to-wall
“Don’t be late” so I drove on and stared hard not
To forget that endless electrifying banana glow

Sorry to rush on tomorrow I’ll wake early and stand
Long to take in the nearer full hanging low moon
Sorry to rush on tomorrow I’ll retrace to those
Yellow fields to see up close the golden blanket

Tomorrow.

Magnifying Glass

Next to my penknife the magnifying
Glass, whose handle stuck out of the
Back pocket of my Wranglers, was
My favorite provision for exploring
The woods behind our stone house
Neighborhood where I was a child.

I had ogled the knife for months with
Its grooved black wood handle, two
Blades, a nail file and a screwdriver in
The glass case with the lessor knives at
Monterey Hardware, until I finally saved
The eight dollars and fifty-fifty cents.

The knife cut the coiled rope, clipped to
My belt loop, I used to scale the dirt hill
Like a cowboy would, hand-over-hand,
When I was the freckly redheaded girl
Who arrived home tired and late in
Filthy blue jeans with ripped out knees.