Childhood Series (I): Sugar

 Sugar and me, always together.

I nestled her into a worn towel in my bike basket,

a snatch of green grass for her snack, and we rode away 

from that house where there was no real peace, down the

Prairie Path, and then back along a suburban street

to visit Jeannie, my only human friend.

Oh, on those very hot days, when the sidewalks simmered,

we escaped to Squeaky Park in the backyard, cool and green

under the old Apple Tree, I lay down on the grass

next to her, my arms forming a small circle around her

and I may have dozed off, only to be awakened by

her small paws clambering over my arm.  

Looking down on the sun dappled river

I only saw the young people at the edge 

of the river after I posted the photo -

I had been looking at the river flowing 

from high up on the bridge, looking down river

always down river, the direction of flow

alongside sun dappled ripples, verdant green

I was captured by the beauty, and then,

I noticed them, the two young people at the 

bottom of the frame, a young man and woman, 

maybe lovers, and I thought of the future they 

had in front of them, that they were watching

the water at eye level, while I was looking from above

seeing much further than them, and I knew that

the end was closer for me, I could see it, but

their eyes could see no further than the dancing 

waves, the sparkle of the sun in their eyes.

a spiral of uncertainty - title unknown

 we were there, in that basement laboratory, together,

you were with me then, in utero, traveling with me, 

we lifted the dies off  the pressure cell and peered down

through the microscope at the brilliant red crystals that bloomed

forth from an amorphous orange cylinder.

We had done science, together.

we were there together, and then you separated from me,

our paths careening crazily, adjacent, but separate,

the separateness of thirty years, of course, we had our own paths

and I never seemed to see you, we never saw each other

until I looked down the spiral of time and you were back there,

in that same building, 

and you were doing science, but without me.

I had moved on up the spiral

looking for my own mother, who was maybe looking down at

me and wondering how we had become so separate.

we never circled round, my mother and me, the spiral never

collapsed in love, daughter, will our spirals ever touch again

in the molten embers of those brilliant red crystals.

Mentoring as a Life's Work

The veins on my hands stand out

there is no disguising age, their wisdom and experience

gained in the infinite variety of touch over decades.

they know how to sooth a feverish forehead, or caress

a cheek, they have handled scientific equipment and 

penned letters, typed on a Selectric for a thesis so long ago.

they have settled into the gentle rolling of dough this day,

a new student four years old, learning to make baguette,

so many tasks are not to be done anymore, only the

gentlest ones, the ones to guide, ever so gently, the 

ones who want to learn.  

Work Series (2): Away from the desk

There is no snow in my cubicle, nor blue skies,

my friend, Sharon, nor the dog, Skye, aren't there.

We are all here on this sunny day, sitting on

a summer pile of snow, taking turns shooting photos,

it's summer in Colorado.

But I am not missing work today on this 

Fourth of July, our Independence Day 

(from what, our times are so fraught),

I can still spend some time in my cubicle on Monday

considering how the cyanate ester panel covered with 

MLI will respond to impact by a one mm Al shot

traveling at 7.5 km/sec, and then can 

garden, guitar, flute, piano, write poetry, see

friends the rest of the week.

One day of science, six of other fun - that 

is my definition of slinking towards retirement.

No rush, no stress, just fun, in my little cubicle,

and out in the big, wide, wonderful world.  

Work Series (1): baguettes

why, she wonders, as the aroma of rising bread

fills her nostril, does she still go to work, to sit 

in the stale cubicle air, staring somewhat vacantly

at work she had done, but not finished, because,

after all, she's hardly there anymore, it's 

impossible to remember the threads, like

the disconnected, but growing masses of grey

hair on her head.

she wonders at all this, 

this morning as she watches the 

chickadees careening wildly towards the suet feeder

as she sips lukewarm coffee

do baguettes make a life?