to cut them off in full growth.
cut them no slack.
It’s killing me,
I’ll Save some seeds so
All is not lost.
just like it did last year.
so they can keep their
secrets and always be near.
did I remember
to invite you in?
Where would you like to begin?
Little details…soon forgotten.
I remember most…
What would you like to know?
Speaking softly, speaking loudly
brought together with a simple rhyme.
No seasons change with me.
Reach out, draw me in.
what was always meant to be.
trickle, gurgle, bump.
is missing as Fall draws near
“Close the window,” says Keelin. ” It’s noisy.”
So, we shut out the Holiday noise
of leaf blowers, while we wait for our fall to snow from the birch trees in the backyard. Coming down and nestling
within the last of the blooms while the sun lowers on the horizon
and shines through, bringing them back to life.
While the weed whackers drone, we put those sounds with the plane
right over our heads as we admire the sky which hid from us all summer.
and moves us on toward winter and soft sounds where the snow comes down
and all of our neighbors’ hard work will be covered. Until they bring out the leaf blower and blow away the beautiful white, silent snow.
roof top garden
September 6th, 2010
heralding the end of the Alaskan summer, where summers have no real sounds, except for cars on the highway, planes in the air, magpies screeching in the trees.
Summers so different from my childhood, where the moon made no difference.
In my summers, cicadas were thrumming loudly, June bug skins on screen doors to be picked off.
The smell of tar, sticking to your bare feet with gravel crunching under bike tire wheels, the taste of wet foods, none to cook.
Legs burning on car seats, breathing labored with hot, wet air reverberating with the fierce heat lightning, one thousand one, one thousand two…
But the moon always came with a promise of reprieve.
Rusted with flames licking out around the edges as our summers burned away in our yards.
And the harvest moon overshadowing the end of those summers.
moon from rooftop garden
August 25th, 2010
What is a sweet pea?
How did you get your nickname?
How did it come to be?
Of all the names to call you
How did you come to know
That the one you would choose to answer
would be for Kimmybow?
We have some other strange ones
The Achmed and the Goom
They feel and look so different
Once everyone is past
a distant moon.
August 22nd, 2010
Then I am virtue-less
If that is even a word.
I’ll make it one
As I wait
For the growth to continue
To curl together
Each, at the same time
Now ready for more
That seeing through
and I have always liked the rain.
In fourth grade, I can remember the rain outside the classroom windows.
The room seemed cozy and calm.
That is the only year I remember the rain.
That is the only grade in which I was in a “real” classroom.
Kindergarten was in the basement of a church and the teacher drew cakes for us on the chalkboard for birthdays.
First grade was in a high school. We had lockers and the bathrooms were really big.
They scared me and I cried that year.
Everyday I would wave to Nancy in her typing class as we went to eat in the cafeteria with the high school students.
They were really big.
Second and third grade were in a high school annex.
No playground. No cafeteria.
Miss Dinkle was the teacher next door
and she yelled all of the time.
She scared me and I cried that year.
Fifth grade was on the top floor of an old, condemned high school.
It was the library at one time.
My teacher was getting pretty old and we just sat around most of the time
working on United Nations models.
Sixth grade was in a basement locker room of that old high school.
People were always getting spanked
and it scared me.
Fourth grade was in a “grade school.”
It had a cafeteria with just little kids.
It had a playground with swings.
My teacher walked us downtown to the library so we could get books.
I never attended an elementary school with a library.
We didn’t have any books to read,
except our Dick and Jane readers.
My dad would drop me off at my grandmother’s
before he went to work and
I walked to school each morning.
I walked home through the field.
I don’t remember my mom those years.
I don’t remember dinners.
I don’t remember who fed me at all.
I just remember the rain.
Why don’t you put something pretty out front…
says the kid.
For everyone to see.
No “POP” for the kid eyes ?
If he would only slow down and look closely…
He would notice the poppy.
And he would see that next week there will be pink yarrow.
To go with the purple rock cress.
And compete with the daisies.
At 10, he doesn’t understand
that out back is just for me.
With the tomatoes,
Up on the Roof.
Keeping company with the fairy house.
every moment is recorded as a Kodak moment.
But they are always firsts.
A first step.
A first word.
When did you know it would be for the last time…?
That your mom remembered your birthday…
before she entered The Land of the Here and Now?
That you would receive an unexpected gift…
just because ?
That even if it clashed…
you knew it went together perfectly ?