“Can you please pass the cream?”

Cousins sit
interspersed with siblings,
parents,
children,
new in-laws.

Like a collage,
conversations overlap —
cities,
decades,
generations.

Mixing memory
and laughter,
storytelling reigns.

“Do you need sugar too?”

When I was young
and creating the requisite diorama
for school,
I took large cotton balls,
stretching them
until the taught strands
made a diaphanous layer of clouds
to sit atop
a cobalt blue
construction paper sky.

Last night,
my husband and I
stood outside
in the balmy aftermath
of a spring storm,
gazing up
as wispy clouds
raced by,
trying mightily to catch up
to the storm raging ahead.

These thin gauzy clouds
reflected the light
from the city across the river.
Puffy and white
cottony and soft,
transcending time.

Heading out the door,
I struggled with a backpack strap.
So,
it was with great surprise
that I lifted my head
to see a young fox
standing still on the opposite sidewalk.

He eyed me curiously,
this young auburn beauty.
He wore his youth well —
lean haunches, big expressive eyes,
a tail not quite as long
as his elders.

I often see foxes
on my early morning walks.
They dart across darkened streets,
caught momentarily
in the pool of a streetlight
as they head home.

But this young fox
paused as if in greeting.

Suddenly,
the gray cloud cover,
gentle rain shower,
and long day ahead
vanished.

It was just me
and the fox
welcoming the new day together.

I have always been a bit claustrophobic.

Crowded subways,
cramped clubs,
congested thoroughfares,
all call for escape.

On planes I prefer the aisle.
At rush hour —
I would rather walk.
In any room,
I gravitate toward daylight.

But,
since the pandemic…

a window is more,
so much more.

No matter the temperature,
my first act
is to throw open the window.

Brisk morning air
inflates my lungs,
clears my head,
and offers grace.

In fact,
I am convinced
there is no greater glory
than opening all the windows,
and letting the world in.

Sometimes
on a Tuesday or a Wednesday,
I find myself daydreaming
about the quiet of Sunday morning.

An ache fills my chest
as I yearn
for the early morning hours
that seem to unfold more slowly
than hectic weekday mornings.

On Sunday,
rising in the predawn hour,
my dogs and I head out,
with only thoughts
for additional company.

Our walk is slow
as the dogs
sniff and explore grass
that was home to foxes and raccoons
a few short hours earlier.

Back home,
I start coffee and oatmeal,
the dogs wrestle on the rug.

For the next few hours,
until my husband arises late morning,
I have the luxury of puttering…
writing, reading, organizing.

No large task is accomplished,
no monumental decision made.

Rather,
Sunday morning stretches languidly,
like the curl of a gentle wave
on a quiet stretch of beach.

I came home to a small writing journal

in tatters on the floor.

Two pups hovered in the corner,

guilt written on their lovely bent faces.

I do not blame the dogs.

For words are delicious.

Words can soothe the soul,

cause love to bloom,

comfort the inconsolable.

My hope –

the poems

in the yellow journal

filled my pups

in the way

only poetry can.

Don’t get dressed in the dark…your shoes may not match.

Too much caffeine is not a good thing.

There will always be interruptions.

Trust your instincts.

Don’t get too attached to a special pen.

A friend will tell you the truth.

Take a walk everyday…it helps.

Books are good friends.

Summer is short, relish every day.

You are loved…every single day.

The squashed squirrel

lay prostrate

in the middle of the road,

not an unusual sight

for a busy suburban street.

What was unusual,

was the large predatory bird

sitting atop the remains

in the late afternoon light.

The bird’s scarlet-red head,

devoid of feathers,

had the wrinkled quality

of aged skin.

Standing at least two feet tall,

the bird dwarfed its prey,

and when its wings expanded,

the 6 foot shadow

enveloped the street’s center.

Afraid of no one,

the giant vulture

stared down passing humans.

When cars approached,

the bird moved only a few feet away

before returning to its meal.

My dogs and I moved on…

disquieted by the encounter

with one so bold,

so fearless,

so honest.

In fairy tales,

the protagonist

finds a secret doorway

at the very moment

he or she needs it.

A shimmering cave,

a door at the base

of a Redwood tree,

a cabinet long ignored

or a breeze blowing,

seemingly, from behind a wall.

At the end of my street,

in the predawn hours

two weeks ago,

a light appeared.

This is no standard streetlight.

Brighter by twice

than any other street lamp,

the warm, glowing daylight

is visible from more than a block away.

It is as if the sun

has chosen to concentrate

in one small puddle

at the corner of two ordinary streets.

On that first day,

I hurried down the street

hoping to find the source of unusual brightness.

Had a neighbor installed a new security system?

Were two cars idling

for a clandestine meeting?

No,

just a warm yellow

the color of baby chick feathers

pooling below the street lamp.

Now,

each morning I rise

and wonder if the light

will have vanished

or

perhaps a new shimmering

will indicate the secret portal

is open for adventure.

A blustery March morning

sends cherry blossoms scurrying

off tree limbs,

dancing down the burnished street.

Swirling and dipping,

the flower petals

are ballet dancers performing

to a boisterous etude.

As each gust robs the trees of their spring clothing,

darkening skies tell tall of a storm brewing.

My cheeks glow red against the chilly air

and my fingers grow numb.

A light thermal vest is little comfort

against the cold.

March can be fickle,

reminding us

we are only pieces moved about

on nature’s chessboard.