Sun shower

February 25, 2014

Sun shower

Walking with the dog down the canal path

through a light spring rain, not exactly minding

the wet, only smiling at how

I didn't think to bring a raincoat

as the ducks are quacking happily.

Scavengers

February 15, 2014

Scavengers

Skunk:

the smell of wartime,

and our backyard the battleground.

It was striped stink-bombs

versus masked nighttime bandits

in the war to end all wars,

the spoils to be the banquet of spoiled food

from the unlocked dumpsters

of the restaurant next door.

My parents fought with the managers,

the dumpsters being their responsibility,

on their property, not ours.

My siblings and I fought amongst ourselves,

although that had nothing to do

with food, or territory, or wild animals.

I don’t remember who called the skunk-catcher,

or if the dumpsters were ever locked, but in the end

it seems we gave some kind of victory to the raccoons,

whether the creatures earned it

or not.

Tree swing

February 14, 2014

Tree swing

A sturdy plank of wood, coarse-grained

but smooth to the touch. A thick rope wrapped

several times around a tree branch, twenty feet up,

two strands snaking down to loop through holes bored

in either side of the plank, knotted and tied up,

secured with a metal figure-eight.

I loved to shimmy up the rope,

inching up and up, past

the half-way mark where the two cords

twined together, up

until I could touch the rough oak bark.

You could have someone spin you, sitting,

and the cabled rope would twist and bunch up

until you were high off the ground, and then

they’d let go, the world spiraling into a kaleidoscope blur

as you sat tight curled up on the swing, and after, to prove

you weren’t dizzy, even when the world swam drunkenly

before your eyes, you would walk the edge

of the driveway, tightrope-style,

one foot at a time, perfectly straight.

Holding onto the back of the swing,
the grown-ups were strong enough

to run forward and push you over their heads,

sending you in long gliding strokes

back and forth. Once, my younger cousin

overwhelmed by the rush of exhilaration,

the height, the speed, let go.

           

                                    He flew

for one breathtaking,

heart-dropping moment,

his little body cutting all ties

to the ground, hurtling

through the air

like a stone

or satellite.

Home videos

February 13, 2014

Home videos

So as to capture the taste of everyday life

my dad would turn on the video camera,

point it at us, and let it run. If we knew

he was filming us, we only wanted to see

our own faces on the screen, the digital

moving image more impressive than what

we saw with our own eyes. A mirror

with a memory.

What curious, greedy things we were.

And now, old enough for our own video cameras,

if we wanted, we still watch our lives play back to us,

still laugh as my brother takes his tumble

into the inflatable pool. We watch

again, and again, as someone always touches

the irresistible flickering tip

of a birthday candle.

Annadale

February 11, 2014

Annadale

In the town where I grew up,

in the gray, green-shuttered house, our yard

teemed with crocuses in the spring.

Like spearheads or neat rows

of pale pointed teeth, greedy fingers

digging up through soil and snow,

heads of scepters, regal crocuses,

sprouting in unmistakable, glossy,

royal colors—pure eggshell, deep yellow,

lavender and violet—petals growing

thick with secrets, until finally unfolding like dawn

breaking, hungry flower mouths opening

wide. I would tuck the thin,

waxy stems behind my ears as charms against evil,

or make the blossoms a crown and become

the Faerie Queen of Annadale, barefoot and wild,

breath like magic blooming in my chest

as I commanded swarms of pixies and sprites

against the shadows of snap-dragons,

fighting and dancing until falling back

breathless, glowing in the late sunlight, my arms

outstretched, my hands turned skyward,

my toes curling in the cool grass.

And even now in these winter days, these waiting days,

days that wear gray skies and thin light,

I test the air, and watch the ground,

listen for the distant drumming:

the sign that the world is once again

on the cusp of crocuses.