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A Change In The Air (Poem)
The sun hesitates in the morning,
Granting the darker hours ascendancy
And paying obeisance to the moon.
The birds have packed away their frolicking trills,
Relinquishing the song field to the mournful cries
Of the winter geese.
The long rumble of the train becomes more a part of the natural world,
No longer rudely breaking into the gaudy landscape
Of baseball games, outdoor markets, and marathons.
I help wooly worms cross the trail,
Lest they be crushed by unwitting travelers.
Seasons still change in the mountains.
Fall has arrived.
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Gifts From My Mother (Poem)
Never these:
The antique brush that did not touch your hair
But always sat before your mirror.
The silver bracelet from your favorite aunt
That you wore to enhance your forbidding elegance.
The Mont Blanc pen you prized as a understated symbol
But found my question of “does it write well,” vulgar .
The gifts you bestowed cannot be touched
And are beyond compare:
A mind made razor-sharp
Honed against the whetstone of your obdurate distance.
A heart with hidden chambers
Filled to overflowing with a magpie’s assortment of kindnesses.
A language in which words become more beautiful
By the flow and tumble over your stony disregard.
So I thank you again and again.
The love I bear you remains my greatest burden, my greatest treasure.
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Bitter Disappointment (Poem)
My mother took me to a tea room.
She promised a special treat.
What kind of tea would it be?
Some tea brought from China, pressed into a cake,
Aged so that it was even older than I?
Some tea from Japan, fine-leafed and green,
Served in a cup more delicate than my dreams?
We entered into ordinary room that tried to make itself special
With cloying incense and scarf-draped lamps.
No other customers, for she had reserved the entirety of the hour.
The server poured us tea,
From a commonplace pot into commonplace cups.
She told us that we were to swirl it once
Then pour it out quickly into a bowl on the table.
A woman came and read our fortunes aloud,
Speaking with a fake Creole accent,
And made us each a taped recording.
I carried mine for years.
The taste of the tea I never drank lingers on my tongue.
