Water Sprite

My son jumps
into the deep end,
goes straight down:
I resist my need
to reach for him,
let him bring himself
to the top.
Water glazes
his brown face,
his smile is broader
than before he leapt.
Through watery myopia,
he grabs
my hungry hands,
and breathes at last:
a hearty sigh.
“I want to do it again, Momma,”
he says,
once again buoyant,
out of my reach.
My eyes brim,
nothing pleases
and terrifies
me more than
the fresh bravery
of his new love:
water.

Seven around the table

Tonight, I had to pull the table out from the wall.
Simple fare: fresh green beans and
chicken from the house down the road,
lettuce, cukes and mushrooms from (I confess)
the grocer, and sale wine from Trader Joes;
laughter, love and three mothers
alternating verbal lassoes over three boys
so different, yet all loving Looney Toons,
bulldozers, trains and the baby doll.

My sisters, their sons, me and mine,
and our mother: so rare,
us all in the same city at the same time.
We feast at my square table,
our differences blend like a good sauce:
enhancing flavors, surprising us,
smoothing the edges of the old grievances.
We are together here,
at the table pulled out from the wall.

Words' Worth

I have had a terrible case of writer's block. Funny, I feel self-conscious even calling it that, it seems self-aggrandizing to call myself a writer.

Anyway, I am trying to merge onto the Recovery Highway. So, at the urging of my life coach, Brady Mikusko, I bought The Artist's Way, and have begun her suggested method of three Morning Pages each day. I started yesterday. My blinker's on, and I am accelerating.

Yesterday, in the pool where we live--that is the pool in the apartment complex, not that we live in the pool, though Ben wishes we did--I met Van Baldwin, a poet and organizer of the Crossroads Poets and Writers conference in Ann Arbor, longtime local literati. We had a nice chat, and he offered to hook me up with some groups and reading spaces.

Almost makes you believe in this recovery stuff. Pretty strong evidence when the traffic moves over and lets you slide back on so effortlessly.

And, I've been catching up on some of my favorite blogs: Ben and Bennie (hilarious lately), Cloudscome (always resonates and great stuff about kid's books) and Bloomingwriter (whose gardens bloom along with her words.) The Curmudgeon scooped NPR by three whole days on the story about stolen hours of work. Good to know you all have kept holding up the sky in my long absence. (Their links are all at the right, I still haven't figured out how to put a link in the text of an entry. Hopeless, I know. Not a writer, not a Blogger, either.)

Writing: odd stuff,
elemental stuff.
I say I can't breathe
without writing.
It's true--
my fingers and toes
are completely blue.
Still, hard to sit down
and do it,
to write it down.

Garden Muse Post

Check out Bloomingwriter's Blog and her links to other garden bloggers. It's Garden Muse day apparently. In her honor, I post this about eating from the garden, which is what I do now rather than garden. But oh I love those who grow the food and flowers.


Blueberry nights

Fireflies glow
along the branches
of the apple tree
and between the big oaks,
deep in the woods.

The porch door closes behind us
with a snap as loud as our laughter
after the race that got us here
through the woods from the lake.

Inside, ice rattles in glasses,
cigar smoke encircles
our parents and grandparents
as cards slap against the table.

But here, on the porch,
there is a blueberry cobbler.
Fresh from the oven,
cooling on the checkered oilcloth.
Next to the warm pan,
a mason jar holds a dozen spoons,
business ends down.

We dip right into the crusty pan
with our spoons and
devour the cobbler,
sticking out our stained tongues
to see each other’s blues.

On our porch the only sounds
Are smacking lips,
scraping spoons,
and soft laughter
around mouths full
of blue heaven.

This blueberry night
of sunburned limbs
and hair smelling of seaweed;
this blueberry night
we catch fireflies
and name them.
This blueberry night
a mason jar holds
the keys to our happiness,
and sweetened stains
on teeth and tongues
are the only blues we know.