painted ladies

pedicures with painted toes

and massage of aching

calves and arches

giggling between chairs

of mom and two daughters

sharing grief with delight

reminding each other of the joy

that lives even amid the sorrow   

gray-blue greeting

gray-blue morning

misted deep sky obscuring stars

chill fingers outside the covers

signs of autumn not coming

            but here

pity the child unsure

pity the child unsure of his own worth

whose defense is bluff, bluster, bullying

the child grows – tall if not up

still fearful without compassion

or even acknowledgement of others

still wielding bluff and bullying

but having outgrown the pity others

were willing to afford him as a child

and so it became

i love the story of children, delighted

by orange, pink, blue, purple wings

flurrying around them

parents called them ‘flutter bys’

the little ones, too excited to listen

closely, spied a yellow enchantment

and called out, ‘butter flies!’

and so it was

color preparation

autumn in the air

filtering summer’s brilliant

whites and yellows to warm

rather than sizzle-hot

as though through burnt orange lens

readying us for greens to re-dress

in red, umber, beige, muted gold

buttery browns, even blue

the colors of a fire in the hearth

in preparation for winter

first courage

black-capped chickadee

at leisurely breakfast

in the birdseed tray

ignoring the wrought iron bird

that so frightened all the wild

birds when my daughter first

set out the try

it was a lesson in avian learning

for me to watch the first scrub jay

who perched at the far side of the tray

pecking with half his attention

on that dark, unmoving shape

after his first bravery

so many have followed

and are now nonchalant

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humble service

boxes of tissue

resting among the pews

a hundred mourners

reaching, stretching, lifting

grasping, clutching, pulling, raising

needing

pinker than yellow-black

chill, pink morning so autumnal

i walk not in fear

of yellow jackets swarming

from their ground nests

my porch and yard

are, finally, again my own

autumn coming

some of my grass is green

the sheltered areas mostly

that moving shadow helps protect

from photons in numbers staggering

to contemplate moving in straight

lines until reflected or refracted

burn my tender leaves of grass

to brown.

only part

we are only part

until we learn to give up self

we know not the vastness

of the whole

chatter silence

chatter like the isolated

human click language

too fast,  too nuanced

for outsiders to understand

squirrels emote, communicate

give vent – except the male

who scurries to the side of the road

as each car approaches

only to hurry back

to sit silent beside the body

of its mate or friend

who never made it across

saucy underskirts

 saucy pink underskirts

of clouds at sunset

dancing slow-motion

into the night

saucy

saucy pink

warm and accept

friends do so much

to warm the soul

and ease the emptiness

simply by being there

and accepting where we are

i’m on my feet

i’m on my feet

even answering questions

and working on the play

i am setting up

but i’m empty

and no judge

of the rationality

in what i am doing

loved beauty

 a second sunrise he

has missed on earth

who designed our father’s

funeral brochure, pastel

with small plane gliding over fields between surrounding hills

if only one of us could now

create his with as much

loved beauty.

our bill

loss

aching

tears

empty shell within

gracious response

a brilliant thought of an author

who has captured and wide, loving

audience for her work

 and then the gathered courage

to reach out to Jane Kirkpatrick

with her own loving story

of mother’s courage growing up

amid annihilating weariness,

ill-treatment and poverty

 the response, far more gracious

than our Susan could have imagined

  ah, the difference between big and small

laughing family

laughter of cousins now distant

in location but close in caring

the warmth of siblings’ support

and knowing each other’s strength

and pain

a lunch together, rare

a sharing of love, thankfully, joyous

realism with a bang

vivid brilliance, blinding

there and gone before our minds

can react and label such power

lightning

and then, low and grumbling

a guttural observation, thunder

that comes more fleetingly upon

the flare and grows more fierce

until each is upon us, overwhelming

terror

so primitive millennia of learning

accomplishments, gadgets

unwarranted pride dissolve into shaking, proper, realistic

humility

super blue

 very early this morning

the moon near its zenith

was still brilliant white

and commanding

joyous for me pondering

the music of the spheres

it must hear even stooping

this close to earth