The long lost sewing scissors and seam ripper

 So when the buttonhole was poorly placed

(See last post), what to be done without a sharp scissor,

Or better yet, a seam ripper,  knowing that once upon a time

The two tools could be found in the sewing box.

A savage rip using the wrong tool did the damage

(And made me sad), yet in the following days,

They were found, in a large box into which the man

(Who said he could help but did not in any productive way)

Had placed so many precious items that had appeared to him

"Unnecessary" or "unknown", as some men do not understand

The essential value of a good pair sewing scissors or this odd 

Little necessary tool called a seam ripper.

Alas, it is too late for the buttonhole that as poorly placed,

Yet, the next sewing project will be undertaken with gratitude,

The needed tools back inside the old metal tool box

That doubles as a sewing kit.

Indeed.

The long awaited buttonhole

Every time my pillow brushed against the makeshift curtain,

It fell onto my head, exposing me to the brilliant sunshine, my eyes

Popping open when they wish to be closed in a mid-day nap. 

I cursed again at my shoddy attachment, binder clipped to the fabric

(Oh, such beautiful fabric from Senegal!)

Yet so loosely held, the clip to fabric. 

So

A curtain rod?  No, that's a purchase, a hammer, some screws, some sewing.

A buttonhole! Yes, to secure onto the nails already in place!

The long awaited buttonhole, that holds the fabric in place

(I checked)

So that when my long-awaited guests arrive, tired from their long journey

And settling into a midday nap, when their pillows brush against the

Makeshift curtain, it does not fall onto their sleeping heads,

Pulled taut, it holds in place

I smile to think of how they will sleep so peacefully.

 

How to spend the day

 When I opened my eyes, finally ceding to the raucous birds that they had won, the day would begin even if it was only 5:30 a.m.

And I wondered how many layers of clothes would be needed once I exited my warm sleeping bag, 

And what on Earth I would do the next 15 hours until I could gratefully close my eyes again, in this God-forsaken wilderness lacking all my usual diversions

So I layered on some clothes and found a small path leading  down to the lake where I found Paradise and enough to keep me occupied 

Watching fog roll across the water, noticing all the different heights of willow at the shoreline and the ever changing kaleidoscope of color on the hillsides.  

I came back this evening, hauling my folding chair and book, my husband, to dangle my feet in the water, feel the wind cool my skin so warmed from the sun.  

Once home, I will listen more closely to the birds and I will sit in my garden, to notice the different heights of the plants, to watch the passage of the shadows across my small Paradise.

Thank you for the flowers

 Thank you for the Flowers on the front cover of your book, the one I randomly picked off the shelf, feeling somewhat in need of flowers from someone who could maybe be my friend. 

Where are you, friend, on this rather gloomy day that watches our country burn to ashes, where children drown in Texas floods. 

And why can't I laugh off the ridiculousness of it - well because I live here, after all.  

It's a day to write a poem on my phone sitting in the bookstore, something I never do, except that

There is a woman at home scrubbing baseboards that have not been cleaned in decades and my husband is riding his bike along mountain streams

So I am here seeking solace, an escape from some parts of reality that pull me down, that even pushing big weights at the gym does not budge.

So thanks for the flowers, the poems inside that may, or may not, speak to me, but at least, you exist.

This is all the garden that I want

He says that I would be bored, but what does he know

about gardening, about finding help that actually knows what a weed is

(in spite of their enthusiastic proclamations of knowing all about weeds),

and what does he know about drip irrigation, busted lines, water in the basement.  

He says that I would be bored, but I think I would be perfectly happy with a tiny garden.

Like this one, with Saint Francis holding some water for birds next to a couple clumps

of beautiful yellow blooms.  

I threaten that I want to move away from this house with this big garden, 

and I see him cringe, visibly.  

So, I'll whittle away at this garden, cover it with hardscape and mulch, get rid of

all those places that simply grow weeds, that become a jungle in the back corner.

I'll get rid of the attempt at a compost pile, which invites pack rats,

how they love the warmth and the food.  

He says that I would be bored, but I'm going to do all that I can to get bored by

whittling away at this overwhelming mess of a garden, little by little,

with the help of people who know nothing, but are maybe willing to learn. 

 

The family

I never used to go to these things, preferring to avoid the potentially unpleasant conversations,

Like the one that was a monologue about how he was making the world a better place as I sat there

Silently mulling how to find some more money to build boats in impoverished Senegal, across the world.

Like the one about the underlying personality problems of my son due to my inadequate mothering,

Or maybe the long drone about financial instruments and how to save money, how to keep your pennies firmly within your grasp,

Such things as that.

But now we are old, one stumbling over words after another stroke, another's heart racing wildly from 

One moment to the next, our backs are hurting but we all have time.

And now that we are old, perhaps we understand the need to listen to one another a bit better,

And maybe not go on endlessly about our point of view.

We celebrated the twin's 70th, ate and drank together, walked the dogs and chatted over coffee.

It was actually pretty nice and as I look at this photo, I cannot avoid the fact that we sure look alike.  

 

We were there - Denver No Kings March

 

We marched with the throngs in the heat, 

the American flag unfurled, our flag, our grey hair peeking 

Out from our hats, yes, we were there.

We boarded the bus and went to the Big City 

To march in the heat, the sun, to sing and chant,

To repeat the words of Democracy.

This is OUR country, No Kings since 1776.

and when a young lady at the party confided that she and her

Husband decided not go for safety reasons, I urged her

Not to be afraid, that she would be among 

All of us who hoped for a better future. 

And that now is not the time to be afraid.