Angels of the Backroad

Autumn on the lake

I have lived away from cities for so long now
That my solitary nature extends to the practice of silence.
During the day,
I don’t reach to the remote for the distraction
Of TV noise or tune into music, classical or otherwise,
Only listening for the songs of wind or wing
In the morning sky
And the raucous call of crows.

Sunlight breaks across the window panes
Directing the small dog to its warmth.
I long for the days of comfort as I sit at the old table,
Dented and worn from gatherings of dearly beloveds
And simple meals that have fed my soul.

I reach for my sweater and the leash
And we walk out to the backroad down to the lake
Where the angels and I will silently commune
As the small ducks accept the gift of stale bread.

The Choice

The Choice

Counting back to that first glance, seconds and minutes,
hours and years, the desire and candor of bodies,
when  our days  became charged with the pace of lives lived.
Years of longing renounce the yearning to another,
no longer young. The clamor of  middle years
leaves  satisfaction and knowledge in its place,
a quietness whose heft outweighs the struggles.
Wisdom is as wisdom does, patience is its own reward,
love never fails, never. And this is the choice,
made and kept, to choose you now and at each sunrise.
Until the day comes that my hand is not recognizable to you
And  my laughter is silenced by your unknowing eyes.

— This always seems to be a poem people come back to from time to time. And Valentine’s Day would seem to be a good time to re-post.

There is so much goodness

Receding fog on the cove

There is so much goodness
In a warm sunny afternoon on winters ebb.
Its warmth caresses my aching joints
And eases too, my hearts grief-
Not that the grief is gone-
But a cold dreary winters day
Reflects my grief
Back on itself, a sad and tarnished mirror.

A sunny February afternoon,
When the promise of spring looks to be real
(A promise made that will be kept not broken)
It whispers to me that this is life-
That my father died after the winter,
That my mother died after the winter,
That I may die after a winter,
And then my children and their children
Will each die.

Maybe on a soft spring day,
maybe not.

But each February there will be a warm afternoon,
solitary and splendid.
And life will seem easier somehow
And the heart lighter.

And that will be enough
Until April comes.

The Moon Makes Me Laugh

November moon
The moon makes me laugh.
Her face pink-gold with exertion
Pushing past the horizon,
Filling the constellations,
To rise in her nights journey.
As she climbs, she prays
in the voice of my mother,
“I see the moon, the moon sees me.
God bless the moon and God bless me.”

The moon makes me laugh.
Her bright face silver with light,
Gracefully easing into space,
Moving in celestial dance.
As she rises, she sings
In the voice of my father,
“Don’t the moon look lonesome,
shining through the trees.
Don’t the moon look lonesome,
when your baby packs up to leave.”
The moon makes me laugh.

From the dark bedroom
My sleepy voiced husband calls,
What are ya’ll doing? Come to bed.
We can’t, I answer.
We have moon sickness.
As the dogs and I moon-bathe,
Naked on the back porch.

*** this is a poem written a long time ago But I thought with the lovely moon this weekend, I would dust it off and share it again.
The lyrics are from
Sent For You Yesterday by William Count Basie, Eddie Durham and James Rushing. Warner Bros Music, publisher.