Nostalgia and Crème Brûlée
We dined, danced, talked, laughed.
No photos, no posts, no proof
Like the good old days.
We dined, danced, talked, laughed.
No photos, no posts, no proof
Like the good old days.
Poetry in flight At twilight, more night than day, I hear the unmistakable sound of geese toward the west. Darker than the sky, two Canadian geese fly overhead, honking loudly and though others might think them lost, I know before night consumes light, they will swim on Lake Cumberland. After daybreak the next day, thinking about you, I turn around, look up, again toward the west into a blue promise sky, and two geese, the same two, I imagine, fly past. My thoughts go with them; go toward you, away from the east and its red glow, dawning. All that I could ever feel for a woman, I read into the poetry of their flight.
what it feels like to stand in the same coffee shop i did 4 years ago:
i look over to the tall wooden table and see a younger me
sitting cross legged, smiling up at you.
we’re skipping school to eat ham sandwiches.
my shoulders instinctively clench
from the weight of a hundred terrible memories.
but it’s comforting to squeeze the flimsy plastic
of my iced coffee cup
and smell the drink that’s so familiar to me now.
and your hand on my back
reminds me i’m safe now.
last night yet another wine glass broke
a subtle crack, as I clanked a plate accidentally
against the rim
still usable, probably
though I should just buy another set
this was the last of the stemware and I chuckle
the occurrence
during a movie about a family
struggling
yet a happy ending and I have to wonder
have we reached just that
although drastically different?
*****
dear kids
sorry if I created a rift
if I drove a wedge between what was and could be
regrets are useless, meaningless now
I could have changed myself, or a part of me
something small, even, if I’d known
I hate that you might struggle, due to my ineptitude
I admit fault
I’ve watched us lean, grow
accept grace
love each other despite our tendencies
our circle is beautiful
not all our stories are broken
a crack in the surface, sure
but no need to be replaced
vessels still capable of acceptance
Sometimes I find myself
toddling again, shaky
on my fat little legs,
holding onto mama’s apron
to keep my balance, though
she’s been gone forever.
Can crawling be far
behind? Potty training,
diapers, someone to wash
my hair with baby shampoo,
no tears? The difference is,
this time I’m the one
who’ll do the shampooing.
I’ll pat my own back,
put me to bed & read me
a story. Then I’ll sing me
to sleep & leave a light on
for when I wake in the dark.
He had a bit of George Bailey
In him, my dad.
Small-town guy, tied down
In a way.
Instead of a savings and loan, though,
Dad had a farm.
The land was our family’s
For generations.
Dad populated it with
Hay and tobacco and cows
And sweat.
But unlike George Bailey,
My dad successfully shook off
The dust of his hometown.
My stilltown.
He traveled to all seven continents,
Two only for a little while
Just to say he did.
Dad died eleven years ago,
And, with my sisters, I sold the family farm.
Am I, then, a sell-out …
A thankless ingrate?
I just know I wasn’t a farmer.
But a traveler, yes
I am.
the caw of the crow
triggered flight of
other unseen birds, the
flutter of flapping wings
the whinny of the horse
prompted the others to
gallop around the paddock,
though the gate remained closed
the startled cow created
panic among the others,
who all began to run,
aimlessly, fearfully
you called to say
you would be home late,
again—not to wait up—
but i, too, respond to signals and
when you come home,
i will be in the wind
