Too much

She puts her purse on the floor. Finding a spot
between spots of rice and quinoa,
drops of aioli and old arugula leaves
is a challenge, but the purse sits clean(ish)
between her toes
in a restaurant she can't afford to eat at
too often.

But then, more often would be too much:
she has half a Cornish hen in the fridge
and a bag of kale she really should steam
before the week is up. And the strawberries
came from the farmer's market; she's
been craving ramen, which she'll shore up
with a couple of eggs and some peas.

More often would be too much,
she thinks,
and rescues a stick of hot fresh bread
from the basket, waiting for her friend
to join her for their weekly fancy feast.
Tonight will be wine; tomorrow
tap water.

Squirrel stew

I'd got it in my mind to try some squirrel stew:
the article on the local free magazine
had a yuppie reporter claiming it was pretty good
Your dad shoots squirrels on the yard as a hobby;
he thought it odd but he stuffed the body in a bag
under ice, with the guts all torn out so our hands
would stay nice and sweetly clean. We could have
argued that we wouldn't fritz out at a little blood,
but he was trying to be nice, and besides, we really
didn't know which parts stayed and which went,
and how to do it best. But he did.

You tossed in a vat some vegetable broth
(the base, we thought, would bring out
the wild flavor), and I added some potatoes,
because stew; plus a few daikons, because
they were about to go bad. I set it on the stove
and we chopped the meat off the bone; it was
young and we'd have felt worse about it all if
the squirrel hadn't kept insisting on eating your
flowers, or if your dad hadn't planned on
killing it anyway, and just leaving it to rot where
the crows fly thick. But it was young.

I wasn't hungry, not really, by the time we'd
worked our way through the third game of
Monopoly. The cracker crumbs covered the table
and a little chocolate was left in the Easter Basket,
but not much. But we'd decided we would try it,
except maybe we should have used a recipe--I think
there were some online, only we didn't bother
to look, despite the long, old tradition of eating
North Carolina squirrels. Somehow I'd made it
bitter, and it tasted foul; the meat was fresh but
maybe the daikons really had gone bad.

We decided not to make squirrel stew again.
At least, not without a recipe--
on the whole
I felt
rather dissatisfied.

Our favorite tea party

Like bullet blasting from a sawed-off shot gun
he explodes into the yard,
barking and disintegrating every neatly-laid leaf.
The tea set we'd carefully arranged for the ladies
and the recently planted buckets of petunias,
once nestled between spring tulips under the redbud,
are now splattered over the patio
with hand-painted shards of porcelain the fragmented
bones of the guest of honor, the oolong tea from China.

The squirrel, meanwhile, twitches her tail in the oak tree
before flicking into her bolthole, cheeks stuffed with
recently recovered proto-tree.
I offer my cousin, visiting from Seattle, a dry-cleaning;
she spots off her formerly white shirt with a dirt-streaked napkin
and pats him on the head, consoling him for the lost catch.

Scraps

Today I found a memory
written on a scrap of notepad paper
stuffed into a folder in a corner of my desk,
never quite forgotten but
never quite on the top of memory.

I've waxed long and wide over
nights on the beach, with moon high overhead
and stars shining down to create a warmth
where none otherwise exists;
I've been eloquent over overall-clad waiters
in country restaurants with the best
fried chicken, ever, the end.
But for the little scrap of memory,
tucked away and partly crumpled,
I've never spoken a single word.

It's not big; it's not pivotal
or bright or loud or shiny.
Just a scent of reflection
on an ordinary day
a scrap of thought passing through
recorded and then crowded out
by momentary worries
and monumental vices;
yet it's a nice little memory,
and the smile it gives me
is warm and cheery, if quiet.

I think I'll tuck back in where I found it
between the folder and the drawer wall;
maybe I'll pull it out again when--
Well, I don't know. When a little scrap
of something nice
but not too grand
is what I need,
which I suppose is most of the time,
so perhaps
only when my fingers find it
and remember for me
that quiet, warm, and cheery
is awfully nice.

Syrup fingers

We had maple syrup on our pancakes for breakfast.
Rich and thick and gooey, and we ate it with our fingers
because the fork-box got caught under the cleaning stuff
and the laundry detergent leaked through two boxes, and
we didn't really want to wait for the dishwasher to finish.

But the pots and pans and bowls were fine; we ran those
last night before crashing on the frame-less mattress
(and we'll keep it that way so the cats won't claw into
the box springs again, like they did last summer).

So with our two spoons too large for the silverware box
we made pancakes in a freshly-washed pan, and
sat on the floor beside the newly assembled table
for which we still don't have chairs, and ate
with our fingers syrupy pancakes, sticky and sweet.

I say I'm getting grimy and icky and you say it's nice;
my hair clumps and sticks to my face; I laugh, but you say,
"You're beautiful, always beautiful" and then you pause,
blush and say, "I know that's corny. But I mean it."

And you're looking at me like the cat does when she's
just knocked over my glass of water by accident (not
on purpose; she's never guilty then). And it's funny because
if you'd tried to say it I'd have rolled my eyes, thinking
it was corny and dumb and you were trying too hard.

But sometimes you forget that things like that have
been said before. And when you say it like it's brand new, or
it forces its way out like a hay-fever sneeze, it's wonderful; and
when you forget, I hear the voice of love, and fall for you again.

On falling rain

we are the flowers
blooming from the earth watered with the rain of tears
and the thunder of laughter, the lightning-strikes of love
adolescence's flashes fading into the after-storm of delight
young adulthood the crazy 1000 days of sun we never
quite think of as a drought, despite
every rainless storm of held-back tears, promising ourselves
that this time we won't cry, and laughter's thunder the shield
that holds us back from watering the sky.
Then comes maturity and the rains fall again; we admit
crying's not a sham or shame but a sign we're singing still.
The toys we set aside, we now hold up with joy
let the rain fall, for it makes us strong and helps us
bloom a second time, and every day after, as we fill our roots
with laughter, tears and love; the storms of youth that never
rained we now see built our souls, but the rain's what keeps us
strong.

In the charging storm, let it rain, let it thunder; bring on
the lightning. Because without the snows there are no
flowers.

Three thoughts, from the archives

#1
A cloudy morning
is coffee without scent,
chocolate without sugar,
or music without melody.
A foggy morning, though,
is the lid on the teapot--
so that the scent is stronger,
the sweet is richer,
and the rhythm smoother.

#2
Did you know
that sun-dried tomatoes
are made without sun?
Pity that;
I am sure they miss the experience,
but at least they can still be enjoyed
when the lights flicker on.

#3
The dawn and I would get along better
if we saw one another less,
and yet she is the most beautiful
of all the beings I know.

There are a lot of trains

There will come a day
when you look at your dreams
and find you don't know them.

This will be a day, perhaps,
when you say you are living them;
you turn the covers and flick the lights,
and what you see isn't what you thought
you had once imagined, but rather
a memory, fleeing, of living through trials
that always you thought you'd never see.
And these are the things, the survivals,
the setbacks, the blood and tears--
these are the dreams you didn't know,
deeper, stronger, more fulfilling than
the ones you thought you wanted.

Or maybe the day will come
and you'll look out the window and say,
"I have no dreams," because the ones
that buoy your soul and fling you to heaven
seem impossible, unattainable or unreal.
Funnily enough you'll discover the dreams
you never thought you dreamed are
in fact the ones you wanted most,
and that you are living as you think;
the everyday humdrum you want to forget
is its own beautiful, unstoppable adventure.

Or maybe you never did call them dreams,
but rather goals; and having obtained one goal,
set another, until the sky came within reach.
Now, with the sun close to your fingertips,
you find it burns; but the pain drives you more,
because it's not the goal you wanted, but
the struggle of which you dreamed.

Then again, maybe you still have them
the same as they ever were,
putting them away on the "maybe one day" train,
which daily leaves the station, and daily
you watch it go with unshed tears.
These are the dreams that sit so thick,
so solid in your eyes, you cannot see beyond:
the cataracts of the soul, the thick and salty sea.
These are the dreams that hide the dreams
you really ought to know; and when asked
what your dreams are, you'll say, "One day,"
and stand watching a train pull away, as
behind you your real dreams frolic and play,
or bleed and beg and laugh and help you suffer.

There will come a day when,
being asked about your dreams,
you may realize those dreams aren't what
you always thought you should call dreams.
Unplanned dreams, the tears of hearts,
the soul of nurture and the spirit of growth--
the dreams that matter, that few ever call
a dream come true.