Steamer Trunk

vessel lake huron.jpg

Steamer Trunk

The gap in the ground
yawned like a toothless mouth
waiting for teeth
waiting for the box
of her bones
aligned and perfumed
like sundries in a steamer trunk.

Her death certificate stamped
like a passport in her pocket
currency exchanged
and shiny new pennies
leveled on her closed eyes
ready to go.

How far away
did we have to go
before the crew,
their gloved hands
holding shovels like oars,
knew they could swoop
in from the trees
cast off dock lines
and launch that perfect
polished vessel.

Hook it up
swing it over
drop it down
release enough
then scoop
then the rest
then again
scoop by scoop by scoop
rearrange the polite dirt
no longer sweating
underneath yesterday’s tarp
damp with rain
tamp it down
on titanium then
christen it with sod.

How far from that site
did we have to walk
before we learned
how ill-prepared we were
for the re-arrangement
that grief would procure
upon every single step
we took, each breath;
how unfamiliar with cemetery
tripping hazards-
sprinkler heads
crushed roses
and gravestones the size
of shoe boxes.

Image found at


A Tiger’s Game, Detroit, 08-07-06

tigers 2

A Tiger’s Game, Detroit, 08-07-06*
        for Pat and Mary

Fifth, sixth, and seventh
we sat in a row, like innings,
siblings on bar stools
we ordered tequila, rum
and cold Canadian beer
to cool us on our way
down the unyielding call
of memory lane

Tiger fans roared behind us
oblivious to August’s wet sun
dipping into the blue promise
of a cool evening, the Detroit River
muddy but reflecting the end
of a hot day and wavering concrete
quieted outside the pub’s windows
as we watched the scoreless skyline
another round and we touched base

Tall tales gushed like street showers
from the corner fire hydrant
Chalfonte and Prevost
we told the one about throwing stones
dumb and hard at bee hives
or pushing rocks inside the mud pies
to fling at a neighbor’s garage
or playing ball in the Feeney’s
big back yard, and how, we laughed,
I was never any good

And then there were
Sunday morning adventures
when mom and dad slept late
before church so we tipped couches
to make castles, covered lamps
with blanket tents, piled 45s
on spindles and danced
in the basement in our socks
like the big kids did

Our tongues flapping like flags
in the stands, we cheered
each other on. Remember
remember, remember when.
We had clearly lost
track of the score.

A pigeon pecked its way
across the ledge of a dark green girder
guarding the monolithic stadium, this
Detroit family, nodding in agreement
to a strange trio’s nostalgic reverie
or perhaps just the vibration
of 41,000 spectators shouting
stomping and chewing hot dogs.

That myriad of voices proved no match
for the stories that poured
from our long-ended sibling rivalry
we filled the innings with reunion
souvenirs we didn’t realize
we had savored for decades.

Toys and trinkets piled on the dark wood bar
bobbing-head tigers and t-shirts,
another round of yesterday secured
our place in this nine-inning game.

The laughter fended off the fear,
or the temptation to spill
old, determined anger, which slipped
instead underneath the blue
and orange cocktail napkins
the growling tigers
safe at home.

*We beat the Twins, 9-3

image from

“Mom, I Don’t Feel Good”

Or the Importance of TherMOMeters

When I was a girl, if I went to my mom in the morning on a school day and said, “I don’t feel good,” she had a routine response. She would first feel my forehead with that hand of hers. It seemed to me then, and does still now, that her perfect hand had been sculpted to cup my small brow, it fit my little temple like a robin fits into its nest, snug, and warm, and the first step toward healing.

Then came the regimen of questions inquiring about my symptoms. Depending on my responses—as in, if it did not include anything like ‘I’ve been barfing,’ or ‘I keep pooping,’ or ‘I am covered in bumps’—and her hand did not detect raging heat emitting  from my skin, she would say this:

“Go get dressed, wash up; then eat your breakfast. We’ll see how you feel.” If after all of that, and I still felt badly, I would probably get a sick day. “But no playing,” my mother would warn. “You have to stay on the couch and rest.”

It was sage advice that I understood then and now, and I raised my girls administering a similar health test, and I use it on myself as well. My mother knew that sometimes we are just off, a little low, or slow, sluggish or even sad, maybe a little anxious.

All we may need is a tiny kick start, a re-set, a nudge. A sweep away of the bad dreams or night frights. A smoothing of the sheet lines pressed into our cheeks. A mom’s perfect hand nestled upon our forehead that lets us know, “You’re alright.” (In fact, do it. Do it now. Take your own hand and gently cup it across your own forehead, and close your eyes, and remember someone’s loving health inquiry, with just their hand).

And, that was all I usually needed. Of course, a good scrub with Sweetheart soap and Pepsodent toothpaste . . . and the Mackler breakfast of champions, shared by astronauts we were told: Tang! And cinnamon toast! Who wouldn’t feel a little better?  Off to school I went.

Seriously, though, when my own daughters came to me to say, “Mom, I don’t feel good,” they received the same questions as I did from my mom, but hopefully the breakfast they were served included a little less sugar. I knowingly carried on my mother’s practice, and it worked.

If I got a call from the school later that day, I wouldn’t be surprised, they were sick after all. If I learned that they had lost their homework and were afraid to ‘fess up, we solved the problem. Maybe they were anxious because of ‘that kid,’ there’s always a kid. A kid they liked, didn’t like, who looked at them funny. Whatever it was, sometimes the moment just required a gentle pause.

To this day, for myself and for my girls, I advocate pausing. Having just traveled a few hundred miles a few times to a few places, I am quick to remember how we humans complicate our lives. Sitting in airports and public transportation lends itself to this realization, this witnessing. People have stuff and stress and a million reasons to hurry and push, roll their eyes and harrumph, snap and sigh. Loudly. Damn, we need to pause from our very selves.

The girls will still call me, and I hope they never stop, to say they don’t feel good just as I called my mom until she felt so bad herself and she couldn’t hear or speak very well. Just as I was not always looking looking for sage advice, my daughters are not necessarily seeking counsel either, maybe just a voice of soothe and sympathy. Or maybe they have an inquiry. ‘What was that tea you used to give us?’ ‘Do you think I should go to the doctor?’ ‘Those bumps have not gone away.’

I was questioned once by someone about my parenting. I don’t know if I had recently responded to a call from one of the girls, or if I was talking about parenting in the 90’s, but I was called a “helicopter parent.” This person certainly did not understand some of the basics to parenthood as I perceive them. The comment could have been a matter of age or gender difference, either way, it was a noteworthy perception, and earnest.

And I simply know that there is a significant difference between deeply caring and tending to a child, or adult as the case may be, and controlling and regulating the minutes of their lives. Steering their goals. Manipulating outcomes. Helicopter parent I was/am not. But participatory and concerned I was, I am.

I miss being able to call my own mom to say, “Mom, I don’t feel good.” Or, as was often the case, “Mom, the girls don’t feel good.” Even from afar, for many years, my mom represented the voice of reason and reassurance that I needed when sick or worried, and when I was concerned about a sick or worried kid. And, even from afar, I could feel her hand on my forehead.

It has nothing to do with wingless air transportation. It’s just love.

In my recent travels I’ve also had the opportunity to watch young mothers caring for young children. I witnessed some deeply loving and careful parenting, and I quite admire these young women and their ability to walk upright and smile while balancing an abundance of energy and exhaustion and babies, as well as car seats, telephones, and stuffed bunnies. I also witnessed something that has not yet settled in my brain.

I remember parenting peers doing this in the 90’s, and I remember to some degree that I, too, softened the edge of my own parents’ stern parenting. But the parenting I witnessed, recently, involved these young women engaging in a lot verbiage toward negotiation with their little ones, two-year-olds that is. They ended their requests with “okay?” Added a level of politeness, “Please don’t play near the cliff, okay?” And explanation, “If you do you might fall down and you could hurt yourself.”

I would always just scream, “Stop!” “Get away from there.” I admit, neither polite nor diplomatic. To some degree, I believe parenting the very young is an aristocracy, and I was the queen, and you, toddler, were my subject. There are rules, consequences, and routines that regulate our lives so they are safe and productive. But you didn’t need to know this, two-year-old, you just needed to stop whatever it is that you were doing that was dangerous or disastrous, thus I screamed, “Stop!”

No negotiation. Period. There will be plenty of time for that when kids are in their teens and have language, logic, lipstick, hormones, and of course, love, on their side.

I suppose in the world of parenting, as in the world of politics, the pendulum swings. The strict parenting of my Catholic upbringing in the 60’s—with curfews and mandatory confession; hand me down clothes and finishing every scrap of food on our plates (even liver and onions? OMG, yes!); no ‘talking back’ and lots of “yes, sir’s or ma’am’s”; and the dreaded, seldom-used but always-threatened ‘Red Painted Paddle’ on the top of the refrigerator awaiting our disobedient bums.

To the current kinder and quieter approach from parents who practice polite, and teach diplomacy; conduct lengthy discussions about spilled milk or scattered toys; make requests and avoid demands, for whom nap time is optional. (What???) Well, it still seems that love is the single most important and required ingredient. Their toddlers in the throws of terrible two’s are not terrible at all. They’re quite smart and curious and definitely cute. Go girls.

In talking politics recently with my daughter Riana, she commented that “It’s your fault, you know, you baby boomers,” or some such statement making reference to the mess of the current political world and what we baby boomers have done to fuck it all up. And I sadly agreed. But our intent was not to fuck things up, do understand that, I pleaded. We were trying to clean things up from the generations before us, who fucked things up in their way.

Will these wonderful children I recently had the pleasure of meeting and watching, someday tell their very diplomatic and polite parents, ‘You fucked it all up’? Yes, they will. And they will be smart, worldly, kind, productive adults, modeling their own parents, and questioning the fucked up world. It goes round and round. All the more reason for a pause. Could we just pause the nation please?

I guess the moral of the story is that we should all parent with every ounce of know-how and love we have in our coffers. Slather it on our little ones like organic, non-GMO, allergen-free, sunscreen. Or Coppertone. Or baby oil! Either way. The world will still get, or remain, fucked up in some way. And it will be someone’s fault. Just do the best you can. Pause on occasion.

As Graham Nash wrote, “Teach your children well.” And as he also wrote “Teach your parents, well,” too.

In the meantime, these young mothers I witnessed? They also have that magic in their hand. A built in therMOMeter. Whether their entire house is child-protected with clips and gadgets and buttons, and their disciplining comes with diplomacy, when their little ones come to them not feeling good? Their instincts out-maneuver any parenting theory. They go with love.

And to my girls? Any time you don’t feel good, you know who to call. I’m always here. No helicopter, no paddle, no diplomacy. Just me, loving you.

A Prayer for My Girls

May each day pass in anticipation of absolutely nothing
that will keep you from living that day fully and entirely.

May each day be full of passion, draining your senses and demanding
response, thoughtfulness, and kindness. A paint brush, or tap dance.

May your rest be calm, without fit or fury or fever
a  time of replenishing your sensual fiber and ability.

May your love be encompassing, knowing no bounds
but for self preservation and respect and enthusiasm for what’s next.

May your friendships be true, held firmly by a stalwart trust
that will remain long after you each may go your separate ways.

May you know teachers who give more than words, but threads,
sturdy and long, connecting the images sewn into each day.

May you know lovers who listen to the sounds of your requests
with their fingers, their eyes, and their souls.

I Feel Like an Elephant


Because June, for all of its weddings and graduations and summer celebrations, is also, for so many I know, a month to remember those we have lost, I decided to share an old favorite poem of mine. Both of my parents died in June. A dear friend’s deceased son was born in June. There are days that simply make us feel . . .

Like an Elephant*, a pantoum
for Pauline

I feel like an elephant
big and fat, dumb with grief
hovering over my mother, a pile of bones
slowly the herd readies to move on

I’m big and fat and dumb with grief
I nudge her hoping she’ll sing or rise
the herd nods to the horizon, slowly they leave
I stay to coax and stroke her cold dead hide

I beg her to sing to laugh to rise
her silence carves a bowl into the sandy earth
I wait and watch her cold breath hide
the ugly buzzards begin their circle

Her death fills the bowl of sandy earth
a gray mountain of mother, finished
I throw rocks at the big hungry circle
I lay across her sad shrinking flesh

She is a gray mountain of mother and stone
I shiver, move away from the pile of bone
lumbering from her shrunken flesh
I feel just like an elephant.

*Elephants mourn.

Photo by Jennifer Latuperisa-Andresen on Unsplash

Four Friends, Two Babies, and the Ellipsis of Friendship

baby in a box.jpgIt is one of the absolute greatest pleasures in life to touch base with old friends after many years and to find the connection has not frayed or weakened as old wiring might do. Instead, the sparks all fire right on cue, and laughter, intelligence, and camaraderie ensue as they always had, as if no time had passed. Such joy.

I had this pleasure recently, visiting an old high school friend and two friends from graduate school. Our visits were brief but only in time. It seems that with true connection, a few of hours of conversation can fill the gap of 17 or even 24 years.

While school reunions are common and splendid, and I will be attending my 40th high school reunion this year, it is this type of one-on-one visiting that warms my soul most powerfully. To have a bird’s eye glimpse into friends’ lives. No room for assumptions or wonders. Just the reality of their lives, and their kindness to welcome me in. It is somehow a gentle reassurance when seeing first hand the artwork they hang, the flowers they grow, the children they raise, the partners they have chosen. To break bread, share a glass of red, and toast to old times, new times, and to this very moment in time. Grateful, hopeful, and kind.

Facebook or other social media, for all that they offer, cannot offer this. The whole business of posting or messaging or waving, yes, yes, yes, whatever. I do appreciate the connections offered, and, in fact, without FB, I might not have so readily found these dear old friends. But I have always preferred to sit down and embark upon a quiet intimate chat,  even at those big old high school or college parties we all attended back in the day. It is still my preference.

The aforementioned visits actually book-ended the key reason I traveled: to visit with an old friend, and roommate in my Flagstaff home, who had just had her second baby. And this visit gave me all the connection that I speak of here in this post, with the bonus of babies. Rocking and holding the littlest one soothed my soul as nothing else in the world can do. And visiting with a toddler reminds me of how great our species is, and re-ignited some hope in humanity that I have lost of recent. His curiosity and readiness for absolutely everything was inspiring and sometimes simply hilarious.

My conversation with Billie picked up and left off as often as the river bumped over rocks. We hiked and sat beside streams, creeks, lakes and lines of apple trees, and in between she tended to the little ones and I assisted as I could. We talked about all that transpired in the six years since we saw each other last. All the love, the loss, the success, the fails, the food and the trails. And of course the babies, her boys, the girls, or er, my two grown daughters.

(There will come a time soon when I do not refer to them as my grown daughters. Just ‘my daughters.’ Or maybe I will forever refer to them as my girls, my babies.)

We hiked with me carrying the wee one on my chest. His calm heart loving the race of my own as we turned the corner of another switchback. (My calves still hurt.) Billie had her toddler on her back, and trekked like a mama mountain goat. No surprise there.

We stopped for a diaper change, or Everett’s curiosity, or for my water breaks or for me to catch my breath. If it wasn’t for the babes, and this older woman, Billie would have traversed the mountain up and down without blinking, and I don’t think she ever panted.

With this part of my sojourn I rekindled one friendship, and made three more as I met Billie’s family. And remembered fondly my own days of early motherhood, and how we all managed friendships, diapers, and interruptions: with grace, poise, and bit of spit up, just as my friend Billie does now.

I did not mind one bit when her toddler called me Granny Annie. Yes, indeed, I thought, and thank you very much. Don’t mind if I do.

I am fortunate to have the resources to make the trip to do this type of visiting, and I return to my home, its colors and art and music and smells, all a little bit richer and clearer because of this time I have shared with old friends.

And this poem came to mind, for whether the interruption is from a tired baby, a stubborn toddler, or two decades — good friends, just pick up where they left off. Every time.

An Ellipsis

When we talk on the telephone,
to exchange the up-dates,
or upsets,
the needs of our daughters
punctuate our conversations,
leaving us speechless
with no time to proofread.

They question,
they exclaim,
they put an end
to our sentences.
(Never our thoughts.)
They bring us to pause,
cause us to stop:
silent as a space.

We begin again
and again,
by the dashed abruptness
of their “Get off the phone now!”
They draw us away
with their parade
through the neighborhood
or they pervade
the cul de sac
with just a little
late afternoon

Or their sweater buttons
have come undone.
Their zipper’s stuck again.

But we are an ellipsis.
We can allow our girls
to get us,
every time,
quick as a comma,
off the phone.

Riana’s in the front yard,
            without clothes;
I have to go.

            Okay, okay. Bye.
            Call me.

Because we understand
how to fill in the blanks.
STET. Close up the line. Insert.

and mothers.
We know.
We know.


Photograph by yours truly.


From Across the Room


From Across the Room

I listened from across the room
her giggles and secrets
forcing my eyes to stay open
so I could hear her make
growing up sound as magic
as the parade of perfume bottles
Chantilly and Shalimar
on her dresser, I unscrewed
the shiny tops before school
to smell my future
and she never knew

She didn’t think I noticed
her or received the attention
I deserved because she was consumed
by the antics of frocked adults,
But I was mesmerized by the rapid motion
of her wrist, like a top after the string
is pulled, when she perfectly scrambled
eggs for our breakfast

She could unscramble
the mixed-up deck of Old Maid cards
that confounded my pudgy digits;
her fingers like rulers
straightened out my slippery game

She let me try on all the colored flats
that lined our shared closet
and I wanted to be just like her
knowing how to sew and unlock
the mystery of a needle’s eye
her own eyes faraway; her teenaged
tongue both bitten and requested

I did not know the safety
a sleepy little girl like me could offer
from across the room, someone
who would only approach her bed
for cuddles under the covers
after a bad dream, someone
free of nightmares that stained
sheets in a rectory far away
a dirty laundry basket
she could never take
to the basement to clean

She knew how to make
Swedish Meatballs with gravy
as fragrant as the dandelions
I brought her, how to roll Tea Cakes
in powdered sugar without cracking
the nutty dough and cracking
me up with stories told between
cola and cigarettes

She took me on my first road trip
to the cornfields of America
I never minded the hump
the heat and the hum of sleeping
on the floor in the back seat
because the promise of Howard Johnson’s
pancakes the size of a clock at 5am
made up for unending horizon
and the boring AM radio

She never trusted how much
these moments mattered
to me, her own nightmared life
of dancing with short older men
in dark confessionals
troubled her sleep and finally
she unloaded over the phone

Predicting my rejection, but this tumbling
only made me dance my own story
in studios free of secrets
what she hid became my pirouette
of caution, his collared crimes woven
like impetus and black thread
in a sweaty Danskin leotard
thrown carelessly
onto my pile of dirty laundry
before I hopped into the shower
alone and unafraid.

Image from somewhere on the internet and I lost the URL

Cardinal Directions

Cardinal Directions

Once upon a time, at a staff meeting, a colleague boasted (was it a boast?) that she didn’t know her directions. She rolled her eyes as if she was too busy to know such a thing, as if it was below her.

I was struck by her pride in not knowing, and struck even harder when two other women in the group chimed in. “Me either,” they both said, also with smiles. And these were all very smart, educated women whose job it was to share their knowledge and resources. Two strikes.

Then the final strike. As I sat there admonishing them in my head, I had to admit to myself, that I, too, had once proudly noted this stupidity. Three strikes.

You’re out.

Not only did I claim not to know my directions, but that I didn’t know my left from right. I was much younger when I made such proclamations, and I distinctly, and sadly now, remember thinking it was somehow cute or funny. I was smart, I knew that, but there was this funny little missing piece to my intelligence. Instead of learning it, I laughed. Ha ha.

I recovered from the like in my 20’s, so I can at least give myself credit for that. These women are in their 60’s. But most tragic, yes, tragic (I’m not being dramatic, I promise), is that not only do we live, and have we lived, in a world where women are assumed to be less smart than men, but women wear this assignment with pride, like a sparkly broach. Look at me, adorned with stupidity. I may have learned my directions, but do I not claim stupidity in other arenas? Yes, and this is not as surprising as I’d think.

My mother thought of herself stupid, and my father agreed, and often broadcasted it publicly. I don’t know that she used the words “I am stupid,” but I am certain she said things like, “I was never very good in school.” Or “Aren’t you the smarty pants, smarter than your mother.” Or “I’m not the smart one in the family.”

My mom made the grocery list, but did not do the shopping. She could not (would not?) drive, and could not (nor would dad let her) keep a check book. But she did do the majority of the cooking, cleaning and housekeeping, and she organized and managed the entire family’s wardrobes, menu, hygiene, school needs, and more. Yet, there was a big to-do about the fact that my father could not read her handwriting on the bi-weekly list. He made no small affair of having to re-write numerous items on the list, noting how they were misspelled, and spelling them correctly.

My mother rode this ritual with an odd, dutiful acknowledgement. His job was to be the smart corrector. Sarcastic, and flirtatious perhaps, loving “in his way,” his ridicule was customary. Her job was to be the stupid mistake maker. Apologetic with a repeated “I’m trying,” or “I try,” as if talking to the headmaster, and not her husband, her lover, the father of her nine children. As if she didn’t manage the daily lives of eleven people.

This dance went on in many other situations besides the grocery list. The fact that she couldn’t drive, and she couldn’t because it scared the shit out of her. Left hand turns were confounding. The fact that she never did well in school. “But the teachers loved me,” she would brag. That she smoked (my Dad had smoked and quit in his 30s). And he chided her about how the thing she did best was shop and “spend his money.” Finally, how she hadn’t had a job since before their wedding.

And it is notable that she had worked for the Detroit Edison Company, but they fired her upon her getting married.

My mother was not stupid, and I don’t believe my father truly thought she was either. Beyond the facts—poor grades, etc.— she was brilliant. In fact, while at her funeral, I was impressed and warmed by the many cousins and friends who approached and told me how important my mother had been to them. Her counsel, wisdom, and trustworthiness led many a young person to a more firm place of confidence in their lives. Not only could they rely upon her to not tell their secrets, they could rely upon her for sage advice when it came to boyfriends, relationships, parenting, etc.

My mother was the 11th of 13 children. Her role as one of the youngest in the family gave her a particular in, and an understanding, to the evolving women’s movement and some of the changes in the Catholic church. She was, in fact, quite hip, and dare I say, she would sometimes sleep through Sunday service and let my dad take the line up of children to mass alone. Smart woman!

My mother was an avid reader with at least two novels going at any given time, and she read both the daily newspapers: The Detroit Free Press and The Detroit News. We also subscribed to numerous magazines which she read including Life, Look, and Time. Yes, she loved her soap operas, and to nap, but she was neither lazy nor unmotivated.

I do not know if she knew her cardinal directions, her right from her left, but I would not be surprised either way. She was not deserving of the ridicule, but she did not fight it. Could she? Can we?

Being stupid for women was, and unfortunately still is, understood as ‘cute.’ Acceptable. Funny. Expected. Sometimes proclaimed with an arrogance that is numbing. Yet, I know well the disdain and animosity that is generated when a woman proclaims the opposite. To be a smart woman, and to say so, is as unacceptable by many, if not more so. A woman can be quickly deemed arrogant, haughty, vain, and somehow a threat if she is smart, knows she is smart, and does not hide it behind a facade of stupid. It is an odd dance we’ve performed. We can’t seem to win, ultimately. Smart or stupid.

As this announcement was made at a staff meeting, I looked around at the group of  women to see their reaction. No one looked nonplussed except for the youngest and  newest employee: a millennial. And me. As we reacted others were quieted, perhaps embarrassed.

Our insisting that cardinal directions be added to the document we were discussing seemed a greater infraction than the women who boasted that they did not know their cardinal directions. And that the document should use some other terminology to explain the southeast corner. A term that was left TBD.

We have a long way to go I am afraid.

So I propose that we stop this silliness. End this madness. Let’s rally and take a stand that it is neither cute or funny or acceptable or expected for anyone to be stupid, and more importantly to not be willing to learn what they do not know, and even more importantly, to never be proud of ignorance, forgetfulness, or stupidity. And let us remember that most of what we can’t or won’t memorize, we can look up. And, there is a mnemonic device for everything. Even the cardinal directions.

I am ashamed of my own role in the like, and I urge all women and men to stop reveling in what you don’t know. Learn it. Don’t dismiss what you do know, share it. Do not judge the intelligence level you perceive, but be willing to teach others what they don’t know.

Future post? My bucket list of the things I need to learn and have been proud not to know. A list far too long including things like changing a flat tire and all the state capitals.

And on that note, a poem.

Cardinal Directions

North is cold blue
Michigan snow sneaking
into untied boots in the morning
when the wind hates you
there are icicles on your nose
the sun forgets your name

Name the opposite – deep green
sticky hot, dank hides
like a crocodile or mint julep
in the veranda’s shadows
the saucy fans of pink ladies
hugging the equator
like and old friend who lingers
too too long.

Linger in the yellow
winding river of sun
the day breaks you in
beckons yellow eggs
pronounces morning
like a fire alarm
not an inkling of past
the eastern shore birds
can not be quiet.

Quiet as a western Washington
rain, I come to you thirsty
like a desert cactus
missing the memories
of reliable raindrops
and succulent roots
all that sunset beauty
the day ends only
for now.

Photo by John Ruddock on Unsplash