The Trouble With Winter (an older poem)

It is not the snow or the cold,
not even the wind or the ice.

Nor is it the darkness of daybreak
or indigo evenings.
It isn't the smell of exhaust or
how it blackens the snow,
like an insult.

It is not the lost glove,
or the cold wet sock,
when your foot lands too deep
in a hollowing snow bank.
It isn't chapped lips, cracked fingers
or skin that begs to be scratched.

It is not losing your keys in a darkened
white void. It's not even the fear
of slipping on ice, breaking your
leg or wrecking your car.

It isn't the stillness, or having
to slow down your life.

The trouble with winter is knowing
the homeless roam freezing at night
as you pull up your blankets and
whisper your prayers.

The Wrong Song

That song is so wrong for her,
like an oversize hand-me-down
jumper she’d never have chosen
herself—one with a square lace collar—
hey—she’s been preaching v-necks
for years. Lace is for curtains– not
to clown up a dress, she moans—
and it’s gray—Gray is for wildlife.
She’s wildly addicted to color—
cerulean blue and fuschia.
The wrong song is too tight,
like a corset halting her lungs,
when she needs release.
It would have to be worn with
nylons and toe-cramping shoes.
Where would she sing such a mad song?

But with the right song she
shimmys into her jeans, zips
her fleece, pops a hat from her pocket,
tosses a purple backpack onto a shoulder,
embarks on a path she knows, yet doesn’t
know yet--to find a song that fits her strut,
but more than that, one that will reach out
to you, dear listener: to you, and to you.
And her song is that song that we need.
And her song, more than anything
lets you breathe.

January 2009

All the anticipated
silence –
bunkering down
with books and music
in front of the fireplace
warming our feet—
those days never last
long enough for me.
Decoupaging, purging,
mending, sewing,
compiling music
gathering souvenirs,
creating photo cards
and lyrical lines --where
are those slow motion afternoons?

As I find time
for photoshop
and facebook,
I face the fact
of youth well-spent
and life, generously,
letting me in on another era.

Cold as it’s been
I hate to see
Winter wane
since once that starts—
we’re into Spring
and Winter’s on
the way again.

Isobel

Squinting up from
under my heap of
loosely- piled,
lightly towell-
dried hair,
I thought
I saw
a couple
embracing in
your doorway.

And it was not
an ordinary
embrace –
It was a post-
war front page
photo embrace!

But as I reached up to
to rearrange my head
wrap for a better view,
I realized it was only
an optical illusion—
the happenstance
way the jackets
and hats hung
on your coat rack.

That never happens
down in Florida.
There are
no coat racks—
and it is always
too hot to hug
like that.

The Wrong

I tried to help you with chores;
but I bought the wrong brand,
the wrong size, the wrong color,
the wrong fabric—so many times.
I remembered to get the red grapes,
but they were not seedless. I brought
back some ice, but you wanted cream.
I gave you a pencil, but you had no pad.
I hauled some wood, but it was not clean.
I brought a hand-woven shawl from France.
You kept it for twenty-three years,
then returned it to me, unworn. I draped
it over my head and shoulders, arms crossing
my heart. I have worn it now hundreds of times.
I gave you a verb and a noun, but you had to split
my infinitives. I gave you a vacation, but it rained
every day. I gave you a one-serving casserole
dish, but you had no room on your counter.
I gave you a mirror to reflect the light,
but you kept your chair in the dark.
I planned a party for your birthday
every year, but the plates were too
cold, the food was too hot,
the children were too loud,
the adults—too many, and late.
The open door called in a draft,
leaving the room too chilly.
If only you had held onto
that shawl from France—
But it was green
and white wool,
and you were,
as always,
in blue.

GinkgoTree at Meigs and Gregory Hill Road

(for Dick, Lucinda and Margaret Snow Storms)

I wish I’d taken a photo
of your wild-with-yellow
Ginkgo tree, before it
started shedding its thorny
pods and fanning leaves.
A perfectly symmetrical,
almost fake-looking tree
twice the height
of your home –
all of its branches
reach straight out
like a mother’s arms--
bidding her children back
home. As you approach the last
few hundred feet before the back
path to Highland Park, it stuns you
with its glorious yellow—Yea! – Yellow –
the opposite of purple pom pom lilacs,
for which the park is known. Yellow
in Autumn when the other trees are
red, brown, orange and Evergreen.
Your yellow fan-leafed Ginkgo
owns Gregory Hill Road, until
it gives in to seasonal pressure –
and paints the sidewalk
with sleeping dreams
of lemonade stands.

Now Your Words

Now your words come
tumbling out of the eaves
like leaves from October
Maples, one minute
waving goodbye to the sun
shimmering in the sky,
then darkly blanketing
sidewalks and lawns
in crimson and umber,
as if to say –I told you so.
Do not take umbrage
with me. You wanted
the heat of Summer to wane;
you moaned and complained,
like you do every year, though
I told you it would not last
any longer than other years –
remember?

These days are numbered,
like your life, whose
reasons and seasons
are kept under wraps
in afterlife scrap books—
This is what made you happy?
This is what made you stop crying?
This is what made you suck in your
breath and feel, even for a second,
“Okay–I get it…I really get
it – I’m waking up now!”