Waffling

It’s the day after your birthday, 

But I didn’t bring you flowers 

(The garden is empty) 

And I didn’t take you out to dinner

 (We have Covid, so we’re stuck at home) 

And the presents that I ordered 

Won’t arrive until today, 

So I asked what I could make you for dinner, 

And you said, “Waffles!” 

We’re old now, we’re allowed 

To have waffles for dinner, 

Though we never have before, 

So I got out the waffle iron, 

Which was covered with dust, 

And washed it off, and made waffles, 

With chopped bananas. I also cooked up bacon, 

 And heated maple syrup, 

Even though all those things are usually 

Your responsibility, and the first waffle 

Stuck to the grill and shredded

 (I’ve not made waffles in four decades 

And forgot to oil the grill) 

And we ate it all, and smiled: 

This might become a tradition.

We shall overcome

It’s true: there might be obstacles, 

And barriers to beauty, 

But with courage and determination, 

And the aid of helpful friends 

We can surmount them, and get closer 

To the joyful rush of life 

Our forefathers envisioned for our country.

Blessings abound

Heading home on the final stretch 

After a long day’s drive; 

Slowing for a local biker 

Who struggles with that last small hill, 

We pause to capture the essence of the moment: 

 The luxury of fields and trees and fog 

Giving the illusion of aloneness 

When we know ourselves 

Embraced by this community. 

Blessings abound.

Ashen rain

What happens when it rains 

And the ash particles in the air 

Are carried down to land on your windows…

Grass of many colors

Grass, like skin, comes in many colors,

Though we’re raised to think 

 It should be green (and watered frequently 

 So as not to turn an “ugly brown”, 

Despite any late summer water shortages) 

And kept quite short for our convenience, 

And hopefully free of weeds.

But look how lovely it can grow 

When left to its own devices.

Shades of the pandemic

After being stuck at home for several days 

With an unexpected bout of Covid, 

I doubly appreciate the cheery vista 

That greets me from my kitchen window. 

How delightful, that the flags installed 

To protect the birds can also add 

Such color to our view!

So different from the millions who died

Alone in hospital beds: 

I’m grateful for the scientists

Who developed medications and vaccines

That have made my experience safer 

And more pleasant.

What’s true?

When my sister-in-law came to visit, 

She asked if we could see the mountains, 

But the whole time she was here 

They were hidden behind the clouds. 

Now that she has left, of course, 

The mountain we see most has returned,

 So I sent this photo, taken this morning, 

Just to reassure her that it really does exist. 

But these days, now that so many photos lie, 

She’ll just have to trust that this one’s true.

Family values

Whether they are brothers or father and son, 

It always warms my heart to see them 

Caring for each other, unlike my cats, 

Who, though brother and sister, 

Never snuggle, and often fight.

More harbingers of winter

It happens every year at about this time: 

The sun, flourishing her ruffled skirts 

In her colorful nightly flamenco dance, 

Retreats once more behind the trees, 

Leaving us with only remnants, 

Frayed edges of the petticoats 

She once lifted so enticingly before us. 

If only we were not quite so far north, 

Or had chosen a home that faced 

A bit more west, we’d not be forced 

Into this annual separation.

Gray again

Gray again, and gray again, 

And now the days are gray again, 

But wet, at last, and not with fog, 

But rain at last, to still the fires 

And fill the lakes, 

And turn the dirt-brown lawns 

To green again, 

And so, again, the winter is icumin in, 

Tripping on the heels of fall, 

Whose colors, like the leaden sky 

 Are dulled into and lulled into 

 A monotonic state 

By all the dry.

Simple pleasures

Grateful for distraction 

From the troubles of the day, 

I’m drinking in the colors 

Of the cloud-dappled sky, 

Watching as the golden wisps 

Shade to pink before the darkness 

Steals all color from the canvas 

Laid before us.

Broken

I came to this green stream 

To be reminded of the unity: 

The lively spirit that flows through us all, 

Only to see that somehow it has come 

To divide us, a widening chasm, 

And all nature’s efforts to bridge; to reconnect 

Appear to have been broken. 

Poor Rudolph

The shoulds are rising up today, 

As in, I should be writing about the twin towers, 

Or the guy who died by one of those guns 

He thought everyone should carry, 

But instead I worry about this little guy: 

A yearling whose antlers are all kittywampus. 

How did it happen, and does it hurt? 

Will he be able to knock them off, and 

Will they grow back straight next spring? 

Do the other deer make fun of him? 

Do they laugh and call him names? 

Sad, isn’t it, how much easier it is 

To worry about the small stuff…

Works of art

Those of us who look at art, 

Whether impressed or underwhelmed 

 Forget that we, ourselves, are also 

Works of art, created and transformed 

 By loving hands, exposed and weathered 

By time, events, and circumstances 

 Not of our creation; 

 Watched, influenced, or ignored 

By those around us, who surround us 

And form part of our experience of the world.

Underprivileged

When I was young,

A foggy day and a lonely beach 

Were an invitation to walk. 

Eventually I realized 

That invitation, like so many others, 

Was reserved primarily for males. 

And though, with time, 

A woman’s world has opened up, 

That one sweet privilege still eludes us: 

Though we carry mace, 

And keys between our fingers, 

We can never fully relax 

When walking alone in fog or dark.

Gray skies

Though we can’t smell the smoke, 

We still know there’s a fire: 

The sun and the moon are both rosy, 

Against the flat gray of the skies. 

It’s like politicians who claim they spout truth: 

Black and white turn to gray, 

But we still smell the lies.

Going through the motions

When the painters came, three years ago, 

To cover the mustard yellow of our house 

With Storm Cloud Gray, 

We asked them not to take down this old nest, 

But paint around it, and it’s true: 

Each year the swallows would come back 

To nurse new young and leave 

 Their spotted piles of poop 

On the walk below for us to scour 

After they left. But this year they arrived late: 

We had almost decided it was time 

To take down their nest when they arrived 

And now they flutter and squawk at us again 

Each time we leave the house, 

But there’s no sign of eggs, or chicks, 

And so much other craziness 

Is happening in the world, I have to wonder: 

Are they, like us, just going through the motions 

Hoping something will change?

Autumnal harbingers

We’ve come to know 

The signs that summer’s ending — 

Late rising of the morning sun, 

The foghorns in the night, 

The tall brown stalks of foxglove 

Swaying in the breeze, 

The way the fig tree branches bounce 

When the deer rub against them, 

Wrestling the summer fur from their horns, 

And now the squabbles in the yard 

As they lock horns with one another 

 In groups of two or three, 

Then stalk the females, 

Their autumnal debutantes…

Smoke-reddened sun

My camera can’t quite capture 

The sun’s rosy cheeks 

As she sinks into her bed of clouds 

A little earlier each night, 

Exhausted after a long dry summer 

And a hard day breathing smoke.

Celebrating my labors

To celebrate my Labor Day 

I took over 100 pix of my paintings 

In an attempt to build a current inventory.

 I then compared them with the pix 

 I had stored on my computer, and found 

So many paintings missing — 

Gifts or sales I failed to record, 

But many more that I had hated 

 And painted over, then forgot to file away;

 Some of which I barely remember 

 Painting in the first place, 

And others that I’m sad I lacked 

The foresight to preserve. 

My cat was far more interested 

In the spider on the floor.

To welcome, not exclude

This tiny fawn, the latest born, 

And last of all her cousins in the yard 

To lose her spots  

Lies sleeping in the birdbath’s shade  

On a sunny afternoon, 

Her pale white belly full 

From all the plants her mama’s taught her 

To nibble. 

Of course we could have built a fence 

To protect the flowers and the trees, 

But we made that choice 

I hope we’ll always make: 

To welcome, rather than exclude.