An eyesore —
that’s what it is.
Towering, gleaming
foreboding.

Where once stood
an open field,
now a large house
sits guarded by a fortress
of a fence.

The natural deer path
obliterated,
a fox den
exposed,
old growth trees
uprooted.

My mind journeys back…

The young doe,
spotted and tan,
nosed her way out of
dew-coated grass
to greet first light.

Most quiet mornings,
the verdant spot
hosted a fox or two,
a pair of gentle deer
or perhaps a family of raccoons.

Tumbling rose bushes,
creeping lavender phlox,
long, tall grass,
soft white pines
created an oasis.

For the family ensconced
in the newly constructed
dream home,
life is safe and warm.

Not so
for the animal families displaced.
When will we learn?

“As a rule, we take nothing and we leave nothing.”
Mrs. Evert in John McPhee’s The Pine Barrens

Turning down a sandy road,
our 1972 Country Squire
station wagon
bumped and bounced.

Keds on our feet,
wax paper-wrapped sandwiches
in backpacks,
my cousins and I trooped out
behind our grandmother,
Dot Evert.

Botanist Dot
took her calling seriously.

She reminded us,
tending our environment:

Means
knowing names —
Utricularia resupinata,
Calopogon pulchellus.

Means
watching our step,
taking only pictures.

Means
speaking up
to protect
the Pine Barrens’s
43 endangered species.

Dot made no distinction
between her grandchildren
and a Pulitzer-winning author —
we are ALL responsible
she intoned.

I can still hear her say
“Come over here
you’ve got to see this!”

Sigh…
tossing
and turning,
wishing for sleep,
a cacophony
erupts inside my head.
Worries, memories, to dos
flood the neural pathways instead
of soothing waves of restoration.

*Written as a nonet, the nine-line poem begins with a one-syllable line and builds to a nine-syllable line. Form idea courtesy of Irene Latham & Charles Waters from Dictionary for a Better World.

Have you tried an oatmeal bath?
CeraVe? 
Eucerin?

Yes to all of it.

Late at night
hands itching wildly
I justify:
maybe scratch
just a little?

*The poem is a Byte — written in 140 characters or less, inspired by the original character limit for a tweet. Form idea courtesy of Irene Latham & Charles Waters from Dictionary for a Better World.

The cute couple
with a contract on the corner house,
explored their surroundings.

First,
the brand-spanking new
elementary school
within walking distance —
a big selling point.

Next,
a visit to soon-to-be neighbors.
Lush lawn,
well tended bushes —
a good sign.

Finally
the duo,
using the crosswalk,
headed back to take measurements —
fully satisfied
with their sparkling choice.

Author Linda Sue Park asks:
“Imagine your home is on fire. You’re allowed to save one thing.
Your family and pets are safe, so don’t worry about them.”

In a house filled
with art,
travel mementos,
heirlooms,
my eye zeroes in
on a football-shaped
stuffed animal.

Army,
a worn brown-stripped
armadillo,
joined the family in 1996.

Until Army’s arrival,
my three-year old son
had shunned all stuffed animals —
no Winnie the Pooh, Peter Rabbit,
or Bert & Ernie rested
in his junior bed.

Picked up
at the San Antonio airport
by my perpetually traveling husband,
Army was an after thought…
until he wasn’t.

Our son Nash carried him everywhere.

Army has been to London,
Boston, New York, Key West,
California, Canada and more.

Like any family member,
Army has endured
injury —
our beagle pup chewed off one ear;
neglect —
left on a Boston hotel bed,
Army ventured into the laundry facility;
smothering —
our son held Army so tight
when nightmares visited
he could scarcely breath.

Ask any member of our family:
what would you save in a fire?
Army will likely top the list,
he is family after all.

*Inspired by Linda Sue Park’s book, The One Thing You’d Save

Sometimes
nature surprises me:
startling a fox around a corner,
catching deer
munching in our yard,
spying bunnies
by the pond.

But this morning,
nature outdid herself.
I opened the door,
laughing
in amazement.

Watermelon pink,
flaming red,
bruised violet,
deep, dusky blue.

Whether to amuse herself
or astonish mere mortals,
Mother Nature
dressed the day
in breathtaking glory.

Letter in hand,
the twins stood sheepishly
at my front door.

“This is for you…
we are so very sad and sorry.”

I have known the girls
since they were small.
First, as playmates
for my two frisky pups.
Lately, as thoughtful
middle schoolers.

The two scurried back across the street
leaving me lost, confused.

Opening the creamy envelope
I found a single spaced,
one page letter.

“Dear neighbors,
it is with a heavy heart
we must inform you…”

My breath caught in my throat.

“The beloved oak tree
in our front yard
is dying.”

“We have consulted
multiple arborists…
there is no saving the tree.
Development, weather and age
have taken a toll.
The spirit of the tree
will live on in our memory,
but after next Tuesday,
the tree itself will no longer stand.”

“With the help of our three young daughters,
we are selecting a new oak
to occupy the space.
But,
nothing can replace this giant.”

“As a sapling,
she witnessed
the aftermath of civil war.
She stood tall as houses
began to dot the landscape.
She watched two new centuries commence.”

“We wanted everyone
to hear the news
before seeing the empty space.
Sincerely…”

Our street
is empty
without broad limbs
sheltering us,
as we trudge on hot days
or dash
in a sudden downpour.

I am surprised
how often
I notice the absence,
the void.

Yet,
I am as sure as sure can be —
we are the lucky ones
for having lived
in this magnificent oak’s universe.


*memory unearthed thanks to reading Amy Juengst’s wonderful post First Degree

One level,
wood floors throughout,
bursting with sunlight –
the house on the corner is perfect
for a young family
or empty nesters.

Two weeks ago
the For Sale sign
was replaced with
an Under Contract sign.
New neighbors were on the way.

A moving van arrived
loading up a sleek dining table,
a comfortable leather couch,
a child’s dollhouse —
leaving the house bare.

What would the new neighbors
be like?

Would little ones
populate the yard,
maybe a small dog or two?

Finally,
yesterday the couple arrived.
She
circled the garden bed
looking for a comfortable spot.
He
paced in the sprouting green grass,
a watchful eye
turned toward his bride.

I have no doubt
young ones are on the horizon.

The pair,
eying my small troop of dogs
as we passed,
surely must wonder
whether we will be welcoming.

I could not be more pleased
with this spring addition
to our neighborhood.
With a pond
merely a block away,
the new neighbors
should feel right at home.

Three bananas
well past their prime
greeted me from the kitchen counter.

Valiantly holding their form,
the trio attempted to hide
deep bruises,
as if any of us can halt aging.

Reaching for the Martha Stewart Cookbook —
nestled next to old friends Ina Garten,
Julia Child, Christopher Kimball, Alice Waters —
I flipped to the best banana bread recipe in town.

Over the years,
I have sampled dozens of recipes.
But,
none match
the moist, aromatic loaf
currently rising in the warm oven.

Soon,
my family will awake,
burst into the kitchen
and beeline for the treat
resting on the cooling rack.

Next time,
can you make a couple loaves?
Next time,
can we take a loaf to work?
Next time,
we should let six bananas linger —
all the more bounty for us.