Posts for 2025 (page 10)

Did you know that
when you cut the grass, 
it releases a chemical
called green leaf volatiles?
We smell it and think of
warm summer nights, 
or riding through your neighborhood 
on your bike in the afternoon. 
But really, the grass is screaming.

Sweet ringing.
Reset button.
Back to normal.
Drone. Drone.
Dial tone.
Brain fog.
Silence.

I ask you, “What did you call her? 
Was it Ma or Mama, or mother?”
You reply slowly. I see you going 
far back to a kitchen where a short
brown haired woman is busy
preparing a family meal and you,
a little boy in short pants with
knee socks pulled up neatly,
your haired slicked down as only 
a 1930’s mother could do, peek
around the door frame from the
living room and call out, “Ma, 
I just needed to see your face,”
“I  called her Ma”.

I have called you Dad for 61 years
and now I know what you called 
your mother.

6/8/25
KW
 

white and blue flags stand and wave
atop the colonized mound of granite.
Clover mites clamber in their shade, waiting 
for a thumb to crush their flesh
just to paint the pavement red.

Sometimes we take the place of a parent
when it becomes apparent
that the former parent
can no longer parent
themselves.

Eleven lakes, you played piano, badly, barefoot, waiting for me, for ice crashing down
cliffs, postal trucks, wine and metallic marker on a map. Roasting tomatoes, you laughed
at having told the bar owner we’d known each other eleven years. At the train stop
you took my hand and I looked past you, because of the cold, my headache, your halo,
because Michael cried because of his heart, because I started thinking about the things
I was going to have to take away, which is a useless exercise for someone who has never
felt like a stranger.

And tomorrow, and tomorrow

Tomorrow I’ll do this, first thing

not last thing

and we’ll see if I do better

My mama tells my friend
that I basically raised myself:
Running feral
and free
and barefoot,
catching crawdads in the creek
and roaming the hills til dusk
on hot summer days.

        Looking for beauty

        I leave home early this Sunday morning.
        As I drive out my graveled drive, I
        look to my right at all the lillies around
        the huge oak tree, orange, except for:
        two yellow ones that catch my eye.

Rain poured down, cold but welcome
Soaking my sweater, my hair, my being
Hood up no help at all against the pour
Breathing in deep the smell of petrichor
Once the onslaught begins to slowly ebb

The Scottish street awakens as the sun
Finally makes her grand appearance 
Reviving the city and bringing it to life
I am here with my family, some blood
And some chosen for myself with age

This is where my people came from, 
Or close to at any rate, we are south
They hailed from the highlands above
Yet I am here, my feet on Scottish land
My name a Scottish name, a tartan
Bearing it inside a little cozy shop

There is something bittersweet to know
That there are people here I will share
Kin with, a name with, a history with
But we will likely never meet each other
It is also humbling to realize just how small
The world really is, as I walk through Glasgow
Just one of many who are trying to find
The place where their roots were once planted