Embroidery of Hope

peacockWhat was it I hoped for–
a sixteen year old
who was usually more interested
in volleyball than sewing–

when I French-knotted
salmon flowers and
stitched royal blue and lime
into a flowing peacock’s tail?

Was I thinking of a handsome husband
and happily ever after,
of a houseful of giggling girls
and Gerber baby boys?

I’m sure I didn’t imagine
sleepless nights with a critically ill baby
or what we would do
when my husband lost his job.

I also never envisioned
the thrill of twin grandchildren
jumping up and down by the window,
shouting, “Grandma’s here!”

I had a vague idea of my
hoped-for love and life,
but not an inkling of the
down-and-dirty daily press.

Now, the regal peacock reminds me
that my forever is still in the making,
and thanks to sacred covenants,
I should continue embroidering hope.

Time Traveler

family in front of car

I am an “emissary from a vanished world,” (1)
a world of photos with scalloped edges,
a realm where my mother wore house dresses
and baked cookies for us when we got off the school bus,
a place of black-and-white television
and neighbors listening in on party lines,
a world where ten year olds could take off on bikes
for whole afternoons of riding around town
or gallop off on ponies for a picnic.

 

It was a time when enemies lived in faraway places,
like Russia and China,
but no one worried about getting shot by other kids at school
or by neighbors at the movie theater.
It was a world of American Bandstand and I Love Lucy,
a world that went crazy for a British boy band, The Beatles.
It was a place of piano lessons and band practice and junior prom,
a world where we could temporarily lose our parents
because there was no cell phone tracking.

 

 

[1] From Sparrow. “The Art of Aging.” The Sun. April 2017.

 

 

Spring Caprice

clouds in mccall

the air holds its breath,

expectant, clouds press earthward,

birthing waggish wind

Dumpster Divers Behind Pizza Pie Cafe

blackbirds eat pizza

Instead of four and twenty blackbirds

singing to the queen,

four fledgling blackbirds

vie for pizza pie.

Ecstasy

 

dog in truck

If I were a dog

I’d long for a warm spring day in Idaho

 

 

I’d hang my head out the pickup window

and bark at the driver to go faster

 

 

we’d rush down Hankins Road

my long blond ears flapping in the wind

 

 

drinking in the freshness of newly plowed earth

and the tantalizing odor of last night’s skunk

 

 

panting joyously I’d leap from the truck

and chase the perfume of rock chucks

 

 

roll exuberantly

in the lush spring grass and slurp from the ditch

 

 

if I were a dog

 

Impotent

whippet behind fence

Kenneled, caged, corralled,

she barked; she moaned; she howled;

and the cat walked by.

Bucket List

bow bridge 

If I could walk upside down on the cobalt blue of the sky,

I would stride past Lincoln and Washington,

past the Revolutionary War and the Pilgrims at Plymouth,

and keep going until I came to Michelangelo painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel

and walk right out of his painting into the colorful tumult of the Renaissance.

 

If I could catch the tail of a cloud as it floated by,

I would wrap myself in its periwinkle folds

and emerge on a misty Scottish moor

and walk around for a day and a night

looking for Heathcliff and other tortured souls.

 

My fondest dream, though, would be to ride a wave of migrating birds

and surf my way past contrails and comets,

to wave to the pilot of a 747, and then lean way, way back

and nod off to the calling of geese

and the mournful keen of a bagpipe.

Vision of Spring

 

Castle rocks creek with sun

On the first day of April,

Ariel sat by a stream,

her honey-colored

hair spilling onto

the blue ocean of her shirt.

 

Her head tilted sweetly

as she read The Last Song

by Nicholas Sparks–

her fuchsia Mongoose bike

abandoned on the path.

 

She might have been an ordinary girl.

 

Dance of the Deciduous

dancing trees

Will you dance? says she, her arms upraised in pleasing grace.

A waltz? says he, as he bows his head a trace.

And so they do the pas de deux through March and April too.

 

Drunk on Spring Air

Cauldron LinnI take an intoxicating gulp

of air as I step out the door.

Delirious with joy,

I sense a slight hint of warmth,

the barest scent of growing things.

 I breathe in

and in

and in . . .

like someone who has been

suffocating,

I just can’t get enough

of the balmy feel

in my lungs

and the heady whiff

of summer coming on.