Beating back the flood; New colors in the basement

Yellow and slate blue, a smile, newly pointed flagstone;

we have beat the flood, we have sealed holes, we have

persevered, the wrinkles may be deeper, the grey

has gotten greyer, the wonders of color.

a couch, some paintings, a bed for visitors that annoy us,

all things are possible; clothes can be dried here, 

even the rat has disappeared without a trace, 

he is no longer welcome here.

the basement has transformed from a dark place holding

stuff  held too long, to an open, colorful place

pregnant with possibility; let us hold that, only

carefully repopulating with what we truly treasure.

Home Sweet Home

the dirty clothes in the hamper are still there,
as are a few dishes in the kitchen sink, no one did them,
the plants are a bit droopy and glad to see me.
One has blossomed since I was away.
the bed is unmade, and a last minute pile of
stuff that didn't make it to Mexico is still in
the same pile, still waiting.
the tickets to the ballet are still in the envelope
and at 3:40 p.m I pulled them out and we
walked up the hill to the ballet in clean clothes
from the dresser drawer, different shoes, a
blue barrette instead of the black one.
I'm wearing a necklace that sat on the dressing
table while I was away, the dark stone looks so nice
against my collarbone, contrasted with my white sweater
and black pants, I like the cool feel of it on my skin.
It's good to be home.

Up up and away

there will be desert and sun,
we will wear cool sunglasses and bathing suits,
drinks in hand, we will recline on beach chairs
pretending to read deep novels. 
our eyes are closed, but no one can see
or maybe they are not looking.
I know that he is tracking the blonde girl
in the teeny-weeny blue bikini.
she is not tracking him with his ghostly
white skin and streaks of Zinc oxide across
his face and around his ears.
meanwhile, the rest of us soak up heat
and sun, drowsy with margaritas and
the lull of the waves on the beach,
we doze, we doze.

Dredging up the mud and rocks

 

like tiny ants they swarm up and down the rocky slope,

carrying small loads of wet sand and debris to

the mother ship, the big front loader that pours

streams of earth into a huge dump truck, its motor

humming in the still-warm autumn afternoon.

they move so quickly, one can hardly capture them

in the camera, their conveyer belts rattling down

into the creek bed so the river can flow again

in its original stream bed some feet lower than

where they dig now, hurrying up and down the slope

like tiny ants, amazing how quickly they ferry

their loads.

Count down to vacation

Will I look fat in my bathing suit,
and does my car insurance cover my rental car?
how will everyone get along, and I hope
everyone wants to sleep in like I do.
what electronic devices shall we bring,
and how often can we use them without
garnering angry stares from the children,
I have learned to love my iPhone, I admit
that Spanish is fun using DuoLingo and
I love WordReference, Luminosity definitely
does not make me smart, but it's fun anyway,
I understand why no one has time to have real
relationships like we will, on the beach,
margaritas in hand, feet up on the hammock,
a paperback novel in hand, sunscreen slathered
on each other's backs.
I can't wait.

The ground is dark

The ground is dark
except for the circle of light from the
street lamp at the corner
in front of the community garden.
it flickers sometimes and people stumble in the dark,
on broken sidewalks, across unshoveled sidewalks.
it's dark tonight, the full Moon is hidden in clouds
that let no light shine through,  the cool is
getting cold, the snow is settling into the
bottom of the high clouds, waiting for
the right moment to dance down
towards us standing under the circle
of street light waiting for sparkles
to dance across our eyes.

Rescuing Christmas Ornaments

 

 

I washed the mud out of her hair, and

scraped mud off his pant leg.

The one armed man was happy to be saved

for Christmas, there will be so few brethren

this year.

Gone is the photo of Daniel from 2nd grade

mounted on a wooden ring,  the straw

fish ornaments I so loved are mere piles

of straw, my very first ornament, the silver

rocket ship destroyed.

So, the few dangle outside on a clothes hanger

practicing for the real gig soon, to hang gloriously

on a fragrant Christmas tree branch.