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!”

Lansdale Street

I used to be jealous of Landsdale Street
Its houses were slightly better
than Benton Street houses–
where I lived, just a few blocks away.
Lansdale had gorgeous full-grown
trees, and heat-calming shade.

And man, those bragging Maples hustled Spring,
rustled the nights of Summer along,
flashed their couture every Fall.
Then they shamelessly shed
their bright burning leaves as the wind
knocked Autumn to its knees –
And still I envied Landsdale Street –
its houses and sidewalks, those trees.

Then there was that cold rough storm –
the one that froze falling rain.
In a couple of hours every trunk, branch, and twig
was coated in a glistening ice glaze.

Lansdale Street was chosen by that storm,
long limbs tore down
like war and thunder.
With a camera hanging from my neck,
wearing a bike helmet,
and jacket, I walked alone,
to shoot a shattered glass scene.
Because of that storm, Lansdsdale Street
lost every tree it had known.

National Women's Hall of Fame, Seneca Falls, NY

When we walked towards the

outside wall, where The

Declaration of Sentiments

is engraved in stone, the

sound of water running

over the words slowed

our pace as we paused to read,

and press our hands to the words:

“We hold these truths to be self-evident,

that all Men and Women are created equal.”

Inside, we are stunningly

greeted by life-size bronze

statues of women, still

not famous enough for

writing and signing the

declaration in 1848.

It took seventy-two

more years before

women would obtain

the right to vote for a

president in their home country.

Women, tourists, who don’t even

know one another, look into each

other’s welled-up eyes,

and help us all swallow the

gagging lumps in our throats.

Mouton Reunion (Water Street Music Hall 9/8/06)

Twin sets of

laser eyes

beneath

persistent

locks of hair

Two hands

commanding

drum sticks

Two arms

caressing

neck of bass

Piano sounds

filter in

Jarrett-like

unafraid

to carry

the scene

Sax smooches in –

an adored

older cousin

on his way

to the beach

and you –

lucky you

got to go

along.