Winning at Yogurt

I tried again,

the same milk, warmed to 110 degrees,

a paltry amount of commercial yogurt scraped

from the plastic container and mixed in.

The same ice box with a lamp inside,

this time, a warm corn bag wrapped around

the same ceramic pot,

at the same moment the next morning

I tipped the container and smiled to

see the yogurt hold its shape.

my day was different, happier than

yesterday because my yogurt yog'ed.

Buyers, beware of $13 Bulgarian starters

from foo-foo stores that don't 

work as advertised.

Failing at Yogurt

I timidly opened the cooler lid,
it felt warm, it must have worked.
I cautiously removed the lid from the
ceramic pot and peered inside
only to find liquid milk that sloshed
from side to side, not the slightest
sign of yogurt curd.
I almost cried after all my hard work,
the heating to 160F, the cooling to 110F,
the lamp in the cooler, the towel to hold
it all cozy, the warmed dutch oven,
the love, the care, the kisses, the hope.
all for naught.
failing at yogurt, what is supposed to be
so simple, foolproof, that saves money,
that is healthy and quintessentially local,
what does this portend for my future.

making yogurt

making yogurt is one of those things

you think you should make,

the recipe says its easy, failsafe, idiot-proof,

it's less expensive, healthier, as local as 

one can get, what could be,

I know better.

optimism smashed to smithereens

upon lifting the lid to find a watery

slop of milk and imagined yogurt curd.

but this time, this time, I invested

more, a starter, a digital thermometer,

an insulated box, a timer, 

higher levels of hopefulness.

the truth will tell tomorrow.

Looking at spots

she leaned in close with her microscope,
peering intently at the geography of my arm,
its hills and valleys, the colors ranging
from white to deep brown, the furrows
and follicles, her brow knitted in
concentration gathering up her
observations into a pronouncement.
her eyes are the watery blue of old age,
her back slightly stooped from so many
years of leaning over arms and legs,
torsos and breasts, feet and fingers.
you need to see a specialist, she said,
handing me a bright blue referral sheet.
As I dressed, I creased it as many times
as to resemble the hills and valleys of my
forearm, it will unfold when the
sun is rising, bathing the mountains
in pink and orange.

As a kid

As a kid
I rode my bike with
my guinea pig, Sugar, in the front basket.
I sat at my grandmother's feet while she knitted.
I felt more loved gathering dust bunnies
for the birds' nest in the back yard
under the apple tree
whose branches brushed against
the rotted roof of the decrepit play house.
Sugar and I played in the grass
where no one could see us.
I'd collect tadpoles in the nearby swamp
to watch grow into frogs, their small
bodies eventually dessicated, sticking
to the bottom of the Pyrex baking dish I
had hidden on the top shelf, forgotten.
Their untimely deaths made me sad.
As a kid, I didn't realize that which
I know as an adult,
It would have been too heartbreaking.

The Sibs

we are five.
all popped into the world
in under five
years, a couple sets of twins
may or may not have helped our long suffering mother.
she paid me back.
I'm in pink with a flower on my chest
we recover from such things with
a laugh and a smile,
now, we stand together as
one family
having celebrated 60 years for two
57 for two and more
for the lone one on the end.
sometimes a family takes decades
to come together,
it was our time.

Flute Quartet

a drunken flight of bumblebees
weaving in and out, crescendo and decrescendo
a few missed notes.
two drop out for a bit
then fly back in with a vengeance
as if to strike all the others to the ground.
we're crawling along the stems, our
wings drowsy in the sun, knowing
that in a week or two or three,
the pace will pick up and we'll have
to buzz like real bumblebees.
to get there, we better practice
in the darkness of night, in our
minds, no glass of wine
in sight.