the marsh

It's quiet on the marsh this morning. Well, it's always quiet there when I get up. Where are they? The egret, the herons, the ibis? I know the Great Blue is somewhere close -- didn't we see this bird out there, as we came home the other day?The tide was low then. So they can't blame it on low tide. Actually, I would think low tide would be better for them -- plenty of food in plain sight. Oh, oh! Birds don't use that term, do they? Their sight is far from "plain." Then what is it? Don't like to get their feet entangled in the dry grass, maybe? It doesn't look that dry to me -- I'll bet we couldn't walk there, on those seemingly waterless patches of grass. Grass? Just try mowing it, out there. And it's not even green -- it's brown. Anyway, out there, just waiting -- are the low waters of the marsh (oh, is that what you call it?) Does "marsh" include the surrounding water? Oh, I'm so mixed up. Haven't been on the marsh long enough.

ducks

The ducks on the river are small and brown -- about 18 of them -- I counted them.

Sh! What a sight! Oh, there's a larger one, a mallard with his green collar -- and a very large white duck slightly further down. They are very quiet. Some of them are double ducks, mirrored in the smooth water, and all except probably one, can easily be captured in one click of my camera.

The sun is in the West -- just perfect! I move easily toward the river, behind bushes, careful not to let them see or hear me. Okay, now I lift my camera showly and peak out around the bushes. At once, a disturbing fluttering of wings -- they are disturbed. Up and away they go -- I snap, quickly.

Now I feel bad at having spoiled their Sunday. I hope they'll come back. The white one is still there, looking back over her back, and probably at me.

And this is just a guess on my part

As a child:

EDDIE: Lots of energy, moving, disappearing, discovering, devilish and smiling (looking for reaction (of his mother, and particularly of his younger brother Leo)

LEO: Calm, attentive, less active than Eddie. A listener, curious, alert

TOMMY: After early months of polio --Quiet, seeking a hand, reinforcement, easy going, passive, curious

JIMMY; After early months of polio -- whiny, listless, interested, busy and occasionally a huge smile

THELMA: Not calm, but restless, anxious, busy, provocative, always looking for new experiences. Looked to her father for calming and affection

CHARLIE: Seemingly quiet. But inside? Always wanting more new experiences, to learn things. Listened attentively. Easily lured into trouble

LILY: A beauty. Quietly seeking attention. Watching intently. A bit of jealousy Very close to her mother.

JOE: Energetic, fast-moving, playful, unpredictable, eager, lovable

Sorry -- more later.

morning mind

Don't know what I was thinking last night, but something was on my mind when I awoke this morning and it's still with me -- Mind, speak to me! I am at a standstill. Blank! Nothing? No, I don't believe that I just wrote. The mind (even mine) can never be nothing, can it? If that is the situation here, then -- I am lost! Come on, brain, give me a clue -- what were you saying? Something about crossing the ice and walking in the woods on Thanksgiving morning, a very long walk with my brothers, while my sisters always had to stay behind in the kitchen, helping my mother prepare for Thanksgiving dinner. I have a feeling the boys took me and Richard and Ernie with them to get us out of the way in the kitchen. I suspect that is why my sisters all learned to cook, and why I didn't.

my mother

If I Had Wings

Walking along the beach, watching the irregular surf roll in under our feet, I watched 3 little Sanderlings, their slender little legs taking them just a fraction beyond the swift oncoming wave. I thought, I wish I could move that fast. Once, I believe I even ran to escape the fast rolling of the water. My feet and legs were always soaked, and sometimes even the edge of my culottes. If I had wings! But wait! Those little Sanderlings have wings -- they can fly, why don't they?

I continued to watch those tiny little, swift-moving legs, and then the Gulls. Laughing Gulls on the dry sand. Oh there goes one, into the water. We've seen them before, they too use their legs to escape getting their wings wet. Except this one. I said to myself: He's not as fast as the Sanderling -- he'll never make it. And at once the Gull lifted its wings -- up and over he went, in a second, laughing his head off. Oh, if I had wings!

Squirrel

Always there, when I look out over the kitchen sink in the morning, hanging there upside down on the small birdfeeder, swinging as she eats the thistlefeed put out there for the finches. When she hears me, she scampers over and up on the "Bungalow" roof where she sits and watches the window. She knows I'm there, and that the window will open soon.

I walk away. When I return, there she is. This time, on the ground feeding on the suet cage that was hanging on the same line, for the woodpeckers. I slide the sink hose out the window, already open just enough, and squirt -- she's up and on the roof before the water even hits her.

Out the back door, now, I pick up the suet cage and hang it unskilfully on the line ranging across from the Bungalow to the House. The line is high and I am short, so I really have to work at it so I get it back on the line somehow or other and go back into the house. I have work to do, squirrel -- stay off the feeder.

I Never Got Up Smiling

When I came downstairs in the morning,
my mother would greet me with
"Good morning, Mary Sunshine"
Did I not get enough sleep?
Was someone's foot in my face all night?

We had a "Girl's Room" and a
"Boy's Room" upstairs and slept
3 or 4 in each bed. My sisters
used to hug one another because
there was nowhere else
to put their arms. They knew
where to put their feet --
generally, a foot in my face!
I do remember pushing feet off my face.

Richard was the youngest. I can't
seem to remember Richard --
did they put him in the Boy's room?
Or let him fall asleep on my mother's
and father's bed, and move him later?

Ernie (very young) did sleep in the
Girl's Room, across the foot of one bed
and I slept across the foot of the other.

Ernie and I were usually sent off
to bed before the others. One
evening he was already in bed
when I went into the room.
He put his finger to his mouth,
"Sh! he said, "listen!"
I can't remember what we were
listening for, but I would guess we
heard someone come into the house,
like Mabel, and we were curious.

I remember there were no chairs
in this bedroom. Two beds.
Not the two beds now in there. Lily bought
the twin beds, with the bedsprings
and the mattresses, for my mother
in later years, when only she
and Lily slept there. Our beds
were complete with a spring and a
thin mattress, with sheets and a
blanket or two -- maybe someone's coat
in the wintertime.

What did we wear?
Maybe we slept in our underwear?
Maybe the older ones had shirts?
Mabel had a nightgown.
Thelma and Lily had pajamas, I think.

No heat upstairs in winter.
Warm in summer. The older boys
sometimes slept outside on the lawn,
with old Indian blankets
(or army blankets later).

We never came down to breakfast
without being fully dressed, complete
with shoes -- well, maybe
summertime called for bare feet,
but I don't remember eating
breakfast with bare feet. Perhaps
my father made us put on shoes.

All I remember here is that
we were given a good morning and
a bowl of hot oatmeal with bran
and sometimes raisins, and in the
summertime, cornflakes, maybe with
blueberries -- or we liked shredded
wheat because of its shape,
and there was always something to read
and games and pictures on the packages.
On some, a prize -- some small thing --
made of tin.

Television

When did we get our first TV set? I can't remember, but I do know someone bought it for my mother. When? After my father died. Who was living at home? Get back to those questions.

I remember the television was turned on only after supper, for my mother while we (Lily and I, and perhaps Charlie) cleaned up and did the dishes. She would watch the news for a little while, then someone would switch on an early show for her, probably Leave it to Beaver, My Three Sons, I Love Lucy, or perhaps Major Bowes Amateur Show with Ed Sullivan. There was always something to watch and usually we would watch too, after the kitchen was cleaned up, and usually if we had a project to work on, or some ironing to do, or maybe sewing, we'd work that in somehow, to keep her company while she watched her favorites, and Archie Bunker was definitely not one of her favorites. She sometimes watched Little House on the Prairie with John and Murder She Wrote with Jessica later on in the evening.

Before TV, my mother used to listen to the radio shows, like Amos & Andy, and The Newlyweds with Jackie Gleason and Art Carney. And we would use that time in our own games unless she wanted to play Chinese Checkers; she liked cribbage but after my father died, she had no one to play with.

After my mother died, we found ourselves watching the shows she liked but very often did not watch until Murder She Wrote came on but sometimes, after the news, we waited until Alfred Hitchcock's threatening music or we'd look for Miss Marple in an English mystery show. Sometimes after my mother died, we rather lost interest in those repeated shows that she enjoyed so much. And very often, after the news, we'd spend the evening having a game with world countries and capitals, lakes, rivers, in the U.S. or perhaps just words. Tommy, Charlie, Lily and I used to spend hours at this type of thing and when Charlie was not at home, the three of us continued.

Here's Ollie


There you are, curled up and comfy in your little round bed. You are older, now and although you have occasionally slunk around the yard and almost approached me for a friendly pat, you didn't and I was sad. But then, you did catch me frolicking about the yard with the new cat, Nosy. Well, nosy started it, and it was every time I went out to the yard, I just had to respond and romp around with her. I really shouldn't blame you, Ollie.

At Christmastime when Ollie you started to come into my house, in the kitchen, you would let me scratch your golden head, and then, one day you went directly in and not to get entangled in Christmas lights, or the many newspaper pages everywhere, you immediately found our stairs and sat on them, watching our every move. This was the beginning of snapping your picture. You were very cooperative. And one day, you discovered Miriam's warm lap, where she would coddle you and tell you (as if I hadn't told you enough times) how lovely you were, scratch behind your ear, move her fingers across your fluffy back.

Ollie, Ollie -- what a golden beauty you were -- oh, you are! you are! Soft, yellow body, expressive eyes, so familiar with this old house now, how you wandered from porch to living room, and even upstairs. Do you remember the time you went into the attic? Did you get lost?

I first used to scratch behind your ear and enjoy the touch of your fluffy back when you managed to slip into the house somehow with your family, my very dear neighbors, and if I sat down, you would be on my lap, and would purr and purr and I would become SO LAZY, with you. When you would hear the door open and Carl or Denise came in to bring you home, you would run and hide, and we'd all track you down -- it wasn't easy.

Sometimes you would sit on the stairs, just watching, as we scurry about the house, Anyway, one day you had gone upstairs and I opened the attic door for you, as usual you disappeared into the attic. I don't think there were any mice there, but maybe you did, because you stayed in there a long, long time. There was a small opening in the floor of the attic, a cat could with its curiosity easily sllip through it. That was my thought then, and I called to you "Ollie, Ollie, here, Ollie," but no response, not even a slight purr. I became more concerned and rushed downstairs, across the living room, the dining room, the kitchen, stopping at the stairs to the cellar. What would I find there? I didn't even want to imagine what I'd find. I was the "scaredy cat"!

Coward that I am, I went after Denise. and there you were, curled up as comfy as one cat could be, in your little round bed. Your eyes looked at me -- I don't know what you were thinking.

More Rocks

I love rocks — everybody I know knows that
Rocks in my garden, rocks in the Park
rocks in the road, rocks to sit on
rocks the cradle, rock to throw
rocks back and forth and rocks to know
Oh yes, let's not forget rocks in the head

My brothers, Tommy and Charlie, know
the rocks, especially those that are a threat
to the canoe. As my tan-backed brothers
paddle our long, green canoe up the channel
of the Charles River toward Caryville (bet you
never heard of that town!) there are many,
many rocks under water, but the paddlers
skillfully turn this way and that, avoiding the
threats to the tender and unknowing canoe

And if you are not in the canoe, but happen
to be standing on shore, just look across the
River's channel to the woods and just at the edge
you will see a large rock that I have known since
I was one of those kids who wore an undershirt,
sewn in the crotch — a makeshift bathingsuit to
wear when five or six of us piled into the canoe and
weighed it down to where only its rims showed
above water.

Back to rocks: If you who are standing there on
shore would look down the channel toward
one of the river's dams, right in the middle of
the channel is another large old rock, the
favorite of the Great Blue Heron.

Rocks

Rocks in the river -- look out for that one. I love this rock, it looks like a dog sitting there and as our canoe comes around the bend, I look for the "dog," and then I know we're close to the old swimming hole. We can see the high-tension bridge going over the Franklin side of the river, and we know that further on there are the high-tension wires, the blueberry bushes, and the great big rock to sit on and talk with my brother Charlie while I muster up courage to go into the water with the turtles, the snakes, and the bloodsuckers.

Uncle Tom

His station wagon pulled
to a stop in our driveway
that morning.
"Who can that be?" my mother
asked nobody in particular.

A man, dressed casually and
under a soft hat, looked
around and just stood there.

"It's Tom," my mother said,
"It's your Uncle Tom,"
and started for the door.
Of course, we reached
the door first.

I remember the last time
Uncle Tom visited with us.
I remember the times he would
dump out a box on the dining room table.
Colored paper, erasers, paper clips,
rubber bands, yellow, blue and white
cards and I had never before seen such
an array of pencils, except in school.

My uncle Tom was a printer
My gift the last time —
a small lead plate, reading:
“MARY ELIZABETH JONES.”

This morning,
his one glass eye stopped us.
Even his smile, as my mother
approached and he gave her
a big hug, didn't move us closer.

Reaching into his wagon,
he came out with two oranges
placed them in each of our hands,
"Here," he said, "for you —
all the way from my trees
in Florida.

"Where's Joe?" he asked.
And before anyone answered,
his head in and out of his wagon again:
"This is for him."

The last time he was here,
Joe asked him if he could
drive his wagon.
"Oh no, this old pal of mine
has to take me all the way
back to your Aunt Bessie,
bless her."

The Wind and the Rain

At first a gentle breeze,
then the rains came down
"Let's clean things up,"
the rain said and the breeze
became violently agreeable

The wind picked up the brush
And scrubbed the houses first
ripped off fllimsy insulation
flinging it over the yards and
on the road, now becoming a
fast-moving river.

Trash barrels and their covers
floated by the window, as I
watched. Birds were not afraid.
The leaning and swaying branches
gave them safe shelter, though
maybe a bit rocky -- but the tree
wasn't going anyplace and they knew it.

Through, they tossed the brush into
the rushing water, and I mean brush!
Lots of it.

Rondel

I nodded, then lifted my head.
Carol was with me -- we were walking.
My feet were in shadow, moving like lead.
"Head up." I heard her talking.

"Look at that tree, one flower stalking.
Look up there, we're hawking."
I nodded, then lifted my head.

A beautiful hawk, wings spread
flat out, graceful wings
like a plane sweeping
down. "Look up," she said.
I nodded, then lifted my head.

"Put That One in Your Hat!"

My father's comment
when we gave excuses like
"the cat came in and ate it up"
"Lily tipped and spilled my cup"

"I'll do it" "Ashes need a real good shaking"
Ernie looks, "I'll get right to it
I'm busy now but later on
you can be sure that I will do it"

Now Esther said in leaving
"just let those dishes stack
I'm going out, just a little while
you know I'll be right back"

My father: "Put that one in your hat!"

My mother in her later days
when ever she had doubt
picked up the phrase
herself, and often it came out

Getting tired of needles
the poking here and there
they'd tell her, gently, "it won't hurt"
and she would show them where

It hurt, told my sister Lily
"give me the needle, you will see
I can do it – don't be silly
Give the needle back to me"

When she was told that in her bed
she couldn't hold the cup
of milk, "put that one in your hat," she said
and proceeded to drink it up.

My father: "Where's my hat?
I left it right here," he said
My mother: "Put that one in your hat.
You left it on the bed"

The Wind

The water's crazy
it doesn't know where to go
crows and swallows flying
frantically overhead

The trees bend, reluctant
to change their position,
their branches stretch way down
to kiss the shivering grass

I walk down toward the water
the wind and squirrels rearrange
the lawn's brown leaves

The small strip of marsh
(when the river is low)
has sunken -- disappeared
Once, a haven for the birds,
and feeding spot for the Canada geese
is diminished -- no more lunch

I walk up to the yard
A barrel, left for the trashmen
rolls over -- it's empty
The lid rolls down the street
I go after it but it's going too fast

The chimes are ringing
as if some event is about to happen
and a birdfeeder swings and falls
A squirrel scampers up,
guiltily, but he didn't do it --
the wind did

My Fault, My Most Grievous Fault

Didn't want to leave her
but she said it was all right
Not sure, I moved her wheelchair
up against the stairwall, tight

Mass at 9 I told her
"Go" she said "don't be late"
and so I went but reluctantly
wanting, most, to wait

She told me not to worry
"they'll be coming right along"
(Tommy, Lily) "they'll be here
"nothing will go wrong"

Coming home, I saw out front
The ambulance, flashing light
Told me nothing, knew at once
that things were not all right

The medics told me, right out flat
she fell and hit her head
"How could you leave her alone like that?"
Didn't hear what else they said

my mother in the mud

Two of us were batting the winged ball back and forth across the net. The others were there too, surveying flowers and plants, determining just when they were due to come up.

My mother was watching the game, sometimes glancing over the river's channel, expecting ducks or geese to float along on the water. She was happy, just sitting there in her wheelchair -- at least we thought so.

No sounds -- a few voices -- a putt, putt, putt and then a scream, and a splash -- or rather a splush --

And wheelchair and my mother down in the muddy low waters -- more mud than water -- sinking down until her face was covered -- and all of us, suddenly aware that she had been sitting there alone -- who left her?

Up they tugged at the chair and my mother, managed to separate them and bring my mother up out of the much, face entirely of mud and unrecognizable, whisked her up to the house, cleaned her up, and all of us standing around wordless, my mother smiled -- that was funny, she said.

my morning

Waking Up in a New Bed

Can't remember buying this bed
my walls are blue, not papered
the lights are not where they usually are
and the bathroom has come upstairs

I look out the window
where did these new blinds come from --
Chris or Carl must have put them
up when I was wasn't looking

And the river has gone down --
no -- it's spread out all over the place --
looks like a big marsh
Where are the geese --
the pine trees?

Catching Redbugs

What if we were
sent down to the river to play
because there was a bed
of hot mortar up near the house
and our sand pile where we left
our make-shift trucks and roads

The river was fun too
We quickly found our jars and ran
to the river's edge, or the wharf

Flat on our stomachs, an arm
stretched own into the water
to catch what? a redbug, must be
a million of them, clinging
to a watery vine. Or
a lucky bug! Really felt lucky
to catch one of these
fast swimmers, or maybe
the hand will be lucky this time

And, if only we could catch
those busy little swift-darting minnows
or pollywogs -- a black circle
must be a hundred pollywogs

We filled our jars with the redbugs
Buried one or two lucky bugs
maybe -- not for all of us
who wanted to see them darting
back and forth among the red dots
and slipped one or two in
with the redbugs

Now I remember

that I ate all that chocolate
that Carol gave me in the car
that the day was hot
that the Hershey bar was no longer a bar
that most of it was a messy wrapper
that I swam in the Pacific
that day it rained, after Mass
that Carol!! She had already had her swim
that didn't matter, we went anyway. We noticed
that my fingers didn't turn white, the first time
that it happened (or didn't happen) and I notice
that my sandles are not where I left them
that it's mornng already -- breakfast in S.Carolina
that N. Carolina and Virginia are not down anymore
that they're up --and this is not Hawaii but
that experience is still with me, I think
that we counted 102 stone steps down, or up,
that doesn't matter. We climbed both ways
that I do remember
that there was at the bottom water
that bubbled furiously over rocks
that tempted me, but I could not go there
that day (or any day, they told me)
that was because they didn't want to lose
that old aunt, those memories
that she had of family popping up

Easter Saturday

It was fun for me because
we could talk — it was a long walk to St. Joseph's church
in the deep snow. Even the wind fierce enough
to blow it into our already freezing faces . . .
my own well protected by someone's arm

. . . and because
it was neat holding the hand of my brother
or sister, dragging my feet and making traces
of one kind or another — doing no harm

They would remember
no hats, and no gloves if they were
left back in the yard beside a new snowman,
and long-underwear legs and shoes lined with newspaper
for warmth

I remember

Reaching St. Joseph's church, with its
steepletower, high up. And now it is gone.
I don't remember its chiming but the huge bell,
cracked, now sits on the lawn

Into the church, we stumbled and piled
and inside the little curtained room
each of us confessed and was blessed
by the priest . . . "bless you, child"

My brothers and sisters
would remember
returning home blues:

My father:
"Come on now, where're your shoes,
line them up, get them
polished for tomorrow, Mass at 9
find your catechisms, rosaries? — here, borrow mine"

And my mother,
Exhausted, with all of her cares
ironing 4 or 5, or 6 white shirts,
hanging them on the backs of chairs
"Lily — find your locket"
freshly ironed white handkerchiefs
"here, put this in your pocket"

Family Tree

Finally, my photo albums are here
boxes and boxes, albums, loose
photos, envelopes of photos and
my bedroom here is beginning
to look like my whole house in
Medway.

But I'm in South Carolina now
and a whole new me -- complete
with haircut and all, and trying
to write every day
A poem, at least that's what
Carol calls them

small containers of old undated
photos, interesting but unrecognized
Perhaps at one point in my
shuffling, the names and dates
will be revealed by association.
but having been schooled
in rhyme. Well, old habits
you know, we'll see

Back to photos and family tree
someone's got to do it
and it may as well be me
why not, since I am the last
of 14. I plan to get right to it
l have already printed out
births and deaths but that is
not enough
get busy, Mary, you'll get through it
You have all the stuff.

My Mother’s Bread

Plump, a lump, out of the large
bucket, must have been heavy,
with the mixer attached to the cover
another lump, plump
into the bread pan — six or 8 of them
lined up on the table
while we watched, anticipating
the last lump
when my mother dropped a piece of butter
in the pan on the stove, then scooped
and shaped little portions of dough in her hands
dropped them one by one into the
frying pan, now sizzling —
that little piece of fried dough, with
butter melting on the sides
was worth all the waiting
when we let the aroma drift up
into our anxious little noses
before we dared take a bite.

My mother slipped a towel over
her pans of bread, for them to rest and rise.
We were not interested anymore
The baking the next day brought
us back into the kitchen — the aroma
was a whole other story.

Planting

Standing by the window
coffee cup in hand
my mind begins to wander
and I think: my house, my land

Now outside the doorway
considering, at ease
what special fun-like chores
to do -- I'll work on, as I please

I choose to do a garden
and go for rake and hoe
Here I'll plant some pansies
and arrange them in a row

I'll plant some peonies over here
and here, some iris tall
Along the driveway, I'll have tulips
that we planted in the fall

Already tired -- now that's enough
I'll be out again, I have a hunch
So clean the garage -- get rid of stuff
And then I'll get some lunch

Cold Fingers

"Run them under cold water"
My mother said, "and the white
will go away"
And it probably would have,
had I the patience, but the red
didn't come back
I want to go back on the ice
My toes are cold
but noone is suggesting
I should run my toes under cold water
and what about my head?
Cold and probably
white all over but
I want to go back on the ice
My skates are
already untied
and off
my hat and gloves off
now someone is pulling
my sweater off
Very unhappy
I want to go back on the ice
Fingers still white
but my mother has hot cocoa
for my not-white lips
Touching the cup,
my fingers warm
and then I drink it up
happy, unhappy
I want to go back on the ice

To my very dear friends on Charles Street, and elsewhere in Medway, and to my nieces and nephews wherever they may be:

A VERY HAPPY EASTER COMING FROM SOUTH CAROLINA

With love, Mary

Morning

It's morning. I come downstairs
Mike's here -- go directly to my chair and
put my feet up, as quietly as I can
read? or talk?
A cup of hot tea? My fingers warm up
touching the cup -- mm it begs my
lips now they touch the rim
and burn, and my whole
body warms up -- thanks, Mike

cat, Mary, nephew Jimmy, Richard, Ernie

my brothers: Tommy and Richard

when's my REAL birthday?

[letter received from the United States Civil Service Commission]

June 14, 1939

Sir:

Receipt is acknowledged of letter dated January 26, 1939 relative to the date of birth of Mary E. Jones probationally appointed as junior stenographer at Washington, D. C., who furnishes a birth certificate, Town Clerk, Medway, Massachusetts, showing that August 24, 1917 is the correct date of birth. This date agrees with that given in examination papers. Notation accordingly is being made on the records of this office.

By direction of the Commission:

Very respectfully,

L. A. Moyer
Executive Director and Chief Examiner

--

Therefore, I, Mary E. Jones, hereby declare that my birthday henceforth, despite all official documents in and out of agreement, will be celebrated on August 24th and not on August 27th.

Richard

The Pilot

The plane came zooming down and then
It circled round and round again
I loved that plane, I wished t’were mine
Coveted — the sleek design

I wanted to soar — to touch a cloud
Wanted to look down, shout out loud:
“Hey, look at me — I’m in the sky
I’m piloting the plane, am I”

And down I’m falling, back to earth
Tiny plane of steel (for what it’s worth!)
My brother, ten, down on his knees —
“Look out! Look out!” — I feel the breeze

A child was I though all of twelve
Into this play I chose to delve
And on that day he lay there, dying
I wasn’t there — I was up there flying

She’s twelve years old -- and not aware?
Perhaps it did not seem so
Please know that I could, I did care
Although I let no tear show

That awful day that won’t go away
A tear I could not shed
It’s sometimes what you want to say
That's worse than what you said

On that awful day that won’t go away
There it was, inside my head:
“It’s now my plane? The plane is mine
It’s mine — the pilot's dead.”

yellow

you may find me here, absorbed in yellow
over the kitchen sink, with dishes done
I stand -- two goldfinch, black wings, yellow
sun turning them to gold, and you may
ask -- what am I looking at? I tell you
I watch for squirrels who knock down
my suet feeders, I look for
the woodpeckers, but no, it's yellow
yellow bird and then past the feeders,
past Kelly's cherry trees, across their yard
across the road, a large wagon wheel of yellow
and I come back and carry with me, yellow
five tall tulips — all yellow blazoned
with sunshine — after the tulips are gone
spiked skyward and yellow Jerusalem artichokes
fill the yard, and the goldfinches flutter
in and out while I look for an opening
and there — yellow wagon wheel

Asheville weekend

my new look:


my new friend Bev:


my new friends Susan and Pat:


that last one was yesterday, before the "do"