Peace among the cherry blossoms

Was it the rain or the falling cherry blossoms tap tapping

How many colors of pink flooded into my eyes (my soul) seeking 

The gentleness of a cloudy, cool day in Tokyo, 

A city where steel towers overlook colorful clusters of umbrellas

And crowds murmur as they gaze upward, shuffling carefully 

Along glistening paths and bridges that seem to bow before such beauty

The ponds dance in the rain, a percussion of droplets falling into 

And bouncing up, the clouds gather and release them this 

Cloudy day in Tokyo, this day come and now gone,

My cheeks already drying in the sun.  

 

The food! The food! Eating in Tokyo, Japan

She welcomed us in to her tiny cafe, behind a curtain,

Behind the wizened man selling tourist trinkets to passersby,

One other couple at one of the four tables and us,

A menu for breakfast, a hard boiled egg, some impossibly delicious

Soft grilled bread cut into rectangles the precise size to wrap the egg,

Steaming coffee and a small cream on the side, for 600 yen

(That's $3), 

But it's the feel of the place, the peaceful yet warm and welcoming

Tiny little place, and how do they manage to keep afloat with so few

Of us maybe wandering behind the curtain,

I'd wander there every day, yet there are thousands of them,

Like the one called La Beauté, where we found ourselves 

At night, us alone with the restauranteur, (watching in fascination

The bowing ritual amongst the clientele having just exited the

Restaurant below), and this one, 5 tables and us basking in

His attentions between chopping and broken friendly English 

(And yes, he is planning to travel to Mexico City and Bolivia for 9 days,

And no, he does not speak any Spanish either, he smiles)

And the food! The food! 

The art of the vegetable arrangement on a platter, each then to be placed

Into a boiling hot pot of tomato elixir on one side, basil on the other,

To magically create in front of us a succulent feast.

And it's all for us, no rush, just smiles, delight, peace,

This is no flash in the pan restaurant, 17 years in, 

How do they do it, the simplicity, the grace and yes,

The food!!  

 

Hanging by a thread in Tokyo, Japan

He's hanging by a thread, dangling, swinging

Squeegee in hand, gracefully, so delicately pressing 

Against the windows so impossibly high, so far from the teeming

Street scene, I watch in fascination and disbelief

From where does this thread hang, such a tiny bracket secured

To the rooftop, and yet

He seems so serene, as if dancing in flight was 

All in a days work, or maybe not even a days work,

But a days pleasure to be free of earthly troubles, suspended

Aloft, above all the troubles and grime of life.

He's free. 

 

No more stumbling in the dark

I'd thought about this new path on the west side of the house

Next to the blackberry brambles that insist on growing east, lazily east

Over the river rock path that has steadily sunk, unevenly, into the dirt,

Threatening to break the ankles of the elderly in the darkness of night.

I'd thought about this new path but was waiting for the right person to show up

On a spring day, or maybe fall could work, or summer, the one who understands

The old and infirm, the vagaries of an old house that endured the indignity of 

The flood in 1894, someone who would be just the right person.

The years drifted by and the stone path became yet another bed of weeds,

The stones yet more uneven and I waited for the right person who did not 

Flinch at lifting out all the old stones and laying even flagstone, tightly 

Spaced to keep out the weeds. 

One day he appeared, his wizened face framed by wiry black hair, someone

From the South, from Peru,  he appeared at my front gate and said he 

Could do the job, in spite of his old bones, he could make a new path

On the west side of this old house, that knew floods, hail storms and fallen trees.

I'd thought of this path for so many years, one that I could walk along, at night, 

without stumbling, a small reassurance in these unsteady times.

 

A moment of peace

I'll take it

While they are busy in that exact moment of peace accords

Of concentration while assembling airports with parking garages,

In agreement on design and execution,

I'll take that moment in the shade, one leg up, a French novel

On my Kindle, only the stress of having to look up so many words.

I'll take it, 

A moment to capture when I was happy to be there,

A break from frustration and boredom, a moment of happiness even,

Of appreciation in the sharing of these lives,

Of a 3 year old and a 6 year old, a letting go of

The grumpiness of old age and inflexibility,

It's good for me

 

Hanging on for dear life

I'd say that I was hanging on for dear life,

Even though it appears that she is lightly swaying from left to right,

Gently gliding along the rail,

Yes, it's me, hanging on for dear life, fighting fatigue from my roles

As cook, playmate, human jungle gym and arbiter between

Two small, but determined siblings who want the same

Thing NOW, and seem to know how to throw a punch. 

I'm hanging on for dear life

And it's only day two,

Only two badly slept nights, but time also 

Counted by number of crochet stitches to make a necklace, bracelet and ring

For this beautiful girl,

Time only spent once at these ages where nothing matters but

A blue sky, a sunny day, a full belly, lots of love and plenty of toys.

In two nights, I will sleep like a log, and will wake up missing

These two little monsters, um, angels because

She will never hang from that bar again

In exactly the same way, never

Glide from left to right

Wearing that same smile. 

 

The Journaling Class at the Age West Senior Center

 Some entered the room with walkers, others still with a bounce in their step,

We assembled around three large laminate tables, the ones with the folding legs,

We are of the age where we carry a spiral bound notebook to make notes along the way,

This is how memories are stored. 

George always begins the session, casting a spell of writing magic upon us all as

He circles the table.  

Carol sings a little song and plays guitar and everyone shares a bit of their latest

Adventures, those that are not too gay, of deaths, divorce, but yet a sunny day and a visit from a 

Grandchild.  

We are of the age of truths, not deception.  There is no Instagram in that room, 

Only Ann talks much longer than the unspoken limit on sharing news.

We wait with an outward patience that comes to us of a certain age.  

After a short discussion to generate promising prompts,

Jackie sets the timer to 20 minutes and the writing begins!  

We may write to exorcise the thoughts which keep us up at night, 

Or write to an interesting prompt, or maybe to memorialize the deepest 

Grief or a profound happiness, maybe the way the sunlight filters through 

The tree canopy or what happened before, what is yet to happen, our fears

And hopes, maybe we just start writing and upon rereading, we learn more

About ourselves.

And when the timer rings, we go around the room and Ann and George, 

Jackie and Carol, and all the others, maybe read what they have written.

George closes the circle, by walking his lanky frame around the table,

Casting a spell to carry us back into the outside world. 

Ann raises up to leave with her walker, I walk out to my bicycle

And the world spins, each adventure a new word waiting to be written.