The view from on high

The trail, being impossibly steep, rocky and generally unpleasant

Did offer a view, an excellent view, down the amber slope towards the 

Shimmering lake nestled between the curving paths.

I could see them, the small people on bicycles, pushing strollers, arm in 

Arm perhaps, and some dogs and if I squinted, perhaps, a baby gracefully

Swishing through the air on her swing.

It was a good moment to pause, to listen to my breath gradually slow,

To let the sweat dry, and to just look, gaze, reflect, pause a moment

Thinking that the small lake would survive these times, would be here long

After my passing, is still here after the recent passing of my friend, Ken,

The one who told me he would herd goats if he failed his doctoral oral exams.

He passed, and so did I, as I remembered so long ago that simple conversation

Which will live on as long as there is someone to hear it.

 

Growing Up

She's reaching for the next grip, carefully placing her feet,

This growing up business, the stretch, and the collapse into 

A mess of tantrums, screaming at this universe that somehow 

Is too big, and not to her liking, this growing up business stretches

All of us from the joy of that new competence, to the severe challenges

Of not losing the adult temper that must always stay in check, the 

Stretch of always being the adult, always patient, always teaching.

I watch this dance and, at times, retreat into this quiet room 

Where I can hear the din of family life, but am not responsible.

Oh, I did my time, and they grew up to have their own,

And my heart is with them, even if, at times, my energy is not. 

 

Desperately trying to grow a tiny lawn

The pathetic lawn turned to mud as the children splashed joyfully, while

Scattered tufts of fescue gratefully sprinkled with water may have smiled

I would have liked to see.

The lawn, the lawn, the tiny lawn that I had tried to grow again

Not once, twice, thrice, four times, but five, finally succumbing to the

Roar of the gas powered aerator, the layer of lawn compost, the special seed, 

The special sprinkler that runs twice per day, shredding all aspirations to save water.

Hoping against hope for a lawn, a tiny lawn, big enough for a kiddy pool

For the one who just arrived in this world, for the two that visit in the summer.

A month in, if I stare at it at a low angle, it looks greener, but on close inspection

The straggly blades do not impress, punctuated by enthusiastic holes dug by local squirrels,

The lawn calls to me to work again, to fill the holes, to spread more seed and to pray

For rain.