Here comes the fall

I.

On the first day of fall, burnt leaves
actually taste okay, even if it's not
how I usually like my tea.

II.

The world sings year-long songs
and the lyrics change every so often.
As a child, the first day of fall was
the change from glimmering opal drops
in the morning grass to
the scent of cinnamon and leaves
in the morning air.

III.

Fall would depress, but
I can smell the State Fair approaching,
caramel apples and crowds so thick
my elbows already hurt, produce
piled high on tables and fried foods
that make my gut churn a month away.
The delight of my fall, the rambunctious
celebratory wake for summer.

Sencha and time

I scoop two teaspoons of sencha leaves
into the strainer--wait, I should have only
used one. But it'll still taste fine, so I
rumble my way down to the coffee machine
and pour the hot water into the empty mug,
leaves still waiting on my desk. Thankfully
that habit is strong enough, or I'd have burnt
leaves with bitterness under the roots. And
I wonder if it's worth it, morning, if it's worth
the heavy eyes and hold hands, today when I
imagine I still feel half-digested catfood under
my nails despite lots of soap, when the blinds
have been near savaged by orange fur, and
what sleep there was, was fraught with snippets
of the kind I was almost glad to be woken from.
No, I think, no it's not worth it. But since I'm
here anyway, I'll drink my sencha. Later, I'll
sit with the writing group and be glad;
the luxury of friendship and time with friends
is harder to afford without that paycheck, so
the "worth-it"ness of mornings changes the
farther I get from them.

image by Maiko Kinari Shincha, from 2010

It's the people that make home

I can't read the signs, but
I know what they say:
"Home, this way; 
city and work that way."
I can't read the signs, or
the menu, but I know what
I want, and where to go:
They looks so happy and so full,
the wait pushing the doors;
let's go there. That, on that table,
it looks delicious. What is it called?
I think I'll have that.
The father frowns at the
impudence of the stranger,
and the small son giggles and
laughs and points. The mother
touches the child's seat but smiles,
knowingly, and I think they
look a lot like my parents,
not by their faces but by how
they move and act. I am home
in a home not my own and
if the food tastes a little odd,
it is delicious and hearty and
there is so much reminding me
of home, I cannot remember to
feel homesick--except of course
the every now and then that I do,
because "familiar" isn't perfectly
the same, even if it's awful close.

Battle Lost

Forgive me, but
the garden can't be saved.

The squirrels made their
inroads as the cats sat
in the kitchen window,
watching and chirping,
cursing the lack of kitty doors.

The soldiers are willing,
but the generals do not
want fleas in the bed.

Washing Away

Standing on the sand watching the tide come in,
I wonder why I bothered drawing anything.
The doodles are rich, beautiful; I had no ink
no paper and no pen. But I had sand, lots
of sand. So I drew what I wanted in the cold
damp medium, and it was coils of life and richness,
a truth I'd forgotten I had within me. Now here
comes the tide, and no one will ever see it
on the beach on a day too cold to swim,
and it will be as if it had never been--
to all the world except to me, in whom the
memory has been planted, and begun to grow.

Watching the Sunset

Watching the sunset
colors spreading gold and coral
orange turning pink, that touch
of light that slices across patches
of shadows, illuminating in highlight
the treasure within the trees.
ratatatatatat

Hearing the birds songs
settle down for the night
and the laughing children
playing in the street--one
last call from mom before
they retreat.
ratatatatatatat

The salty brush of briney air
the last swift, hot breeze touched
by sea and sand over a shell-strewn
beach, cotton fluff pink and bright
against purpling blue of oncoming
night, darkening minute by minute
until the clouds seep to dark grey.
ratatatatatatat.

Watching the sunset
through lightning and storm
on a beautiful evening
parking lot people running
listening to children's laughter
thunder rattling sheets of rain
 in the warm seaside breeze
ratatatatatatatatat.

10-12 at 375F

I roll the dough
quickly, without taking care
to avoid rips--those I press
back together. The oven
preheats in the background;
I knew the temperature by heart.
Three of the four make it into
the pan. This is why I refuse
to buy cans of 8, because
I find them so delicious and
they never make it more than
an hour, unless I've saved you
one and you're too caught in
a game to save it from me, or
me from it--I'm not really sure
which that it goes--but if I said
it was yours, I'll leave it, and
it will last out the twitching
of the clock.

My love of crescent rolls
does not exceed my joy
at your smile,
but I wouldn't suggest you
decide to leave yours until
tomorrow.