Category: Writing

A soft breeze cools my face. The coffee steams in the morning sun. In a book of poems, I underline the lines: “It’s mornings most that I miss / the holding of hands.” I play with substitutes for the second line: the city buzz, fog on the lake, the butterfly’s lift, your smile.

Three candles glow. The night is slow. The phone blinks notifications in the dark. Tucked between melancholy lyrics about loss and waiting springs a song of hope. This wine pairs well with summer’s nighttime chirp. Fireflies dance at the rooftop’s edge. Tonight, I’m waiting on the moon. Tonight, I’m finding my redemption.

One bird in the morning dark, a Northern Cardinal sings alone. Soon, others wake and warble – joining the low-hum heartbeat chorus of crickets and katydids. In this slate blue light, a Gray Catbird bleats a long why. Are there birds in the city where I am going? Will they sound as sweet?

A heart with a hole in it. A T-Rex head. A rabbit running fast, ears pinned back. The cloud drifts, shifts. A rock. A hamster about to do a somersault. A Fudgsicle. The stick / tail disappears. A jellyfish.  A fancy-tall glass mug of hot chocolate. A formal mouse about to bow. Gone.

The horizon blushes just above the tree line. The sun will be orange in today’s debut. The mug on the table filled with paint brushes reminds me to pack a box of art supplies: empty canvases, paints, a mug of markers, and a mug of brushes. To one day paint a sunrise.   

Sun floods the view to the west, pouring through the open-air dining room. Men sit alone at the bar – spaced apart as though they were at urinals. They stare at their phones or at the TVs above. One stranger shares with another that in high school he banged the owner’s sister. Men.

The dishwasher I forgot to run last night sings its song: knock whoosh knock, knock whoosh knock. There’s a rhythm to the mechanical. One could walk, shake hips, sway and groove to this sanitizing beat. That is until it stops and gurgles, drains into the kitchen sink and then picks up again.  

This is easier in the morning when the day hasn’t worn record grooves on my mind. The difference between observation and memory is now. “Into the Mystic” plays in my head. A fan whirs and stirs the nighttime air – I imagine how that foghorn blows, the soft release of a gypsy soul.

Tree-covered sloping hills lit green by a patch of sun contrast a dark and stormy sky. We wait for rain that doesn’t come. The band plays on. Strings of Edison Bulbs sway in a serious wind. Groups of friends gather in chairs around fire pits that remain unlit. The band plays on.

Limbo leaves me languishing and lost. This house is big and there are too many rooms in which to wander. I need batteries and check junk drawers and boxes. I throw things away. So many things – little odds and ends. Useful things, just not for me. Unburdened from their responsible care.

In the darkened room at the end of the hall, I stumble into her – nearly tripping over her skirt dangling on the floor. Her softness invites the weight of me. She’s quiet and receiving. She is a silky balm. She’s patient in her waiting. I’m tired and in love with my bed.

Nothing moves in this creamsicle sky. Trees stand resolute. I crack the back door to hear sounds other than the electric light hum from above the kitchen sink. Sound is a type of movement – the birds are still alive. A molten sun appears – too bright to have any shape. Good morning, sun.