MacIntosh

MacIntosh

It’s an old tree, standing in my yard –
not ancient like the Sequoias, or
statuesque like the Redwoods, just

a squat little apple tree being the best
tree it can. I can imagine it wiggling its
roots in the rich soil, like the child playing

In the sandbox under its shady umbrella,
Deer come to graze on the bounty of
late summer and Robins build delicate,

twiggy nests in its branches, and I’m sure
I can hear it humming lullabies in the night.

Book Sounds

Book Sounds

Listen to

…. the slight whisper of a page being turned
late at night after everyone is asleep

…. the sharp rustle of paper as a page is
rapidly turned in anticipation

…. the final satisfying whoosh of the last page
turned, a book closed

Pondering My Fate

Pondering My Fate

I am the only one of the bunch left.
I sit alone on top of the refrigerator
waiting for someone to look up,

to see me here and think, “Oh
there’s still a banana!” Maybe
they will slice me and smother me

in ice cream and chocolate sauce.
Maybe they will cuddle me up between
two slices of bread slathered in peanut butter,

or lovingly slice me into a bowl of warm oatmeal.
Maybe someone will grab me on the way out
the door, on their way to yoga or soccer practice.

My freckles are just starting to show. I am the perfect
specimen, slightly curved, firm yellow skin, soft buttery
insides – just what the doctor ordered.

I know my days are numbered, here on the fridge.The longer
I go unnoticed, the more likely I have been forgotten and I will
slowly rot, until someone notices the smell. Then, I must join the

soggy tomatoes, the stinky potatoes, the furry grapes –
unfortunates destined for the compost pile.

About What Counts

About What Counts

He sits at the kitchen window counting
birds at the feeder. He used to know the name

of each one, their breeding habits, their migration
patterns. A large shadow passes overhead, scattering

the little birds like the memories that elude him. People
and places he no longer recalls, strangers in photographs.

Only the feelings remain.
Surely they must count for something.

At the Rim of the Canyon

At the Rim of the Canyon

The sky above is a canvas of blue, an unnamed
shade no artist can faithfully recreate.

Great Condors seem like dots above me, wings spread,
wheeling through the warm air, defying extinction.

I hear the hush of wind in the pinyon pines, as
if the Gods of many nations are breathing.

Ripped open before me is the history of this
planet, laid down in stripes of rock and mineral,

chiseled away by a restless river, relentlessly
eroding the chasm I stare into, eon by eon.

Before the vastness of this grand canyon, I
lay down my human hubris and weep.

https://www.napowrimo.net/day-eleven-10/

Of Courage and Joy

Of Courage and Joy

No one tells you how courageous you must be to grow old
The oldest are often the bravest
No one tells you how many times a heart can be broken or

How many times it can heal
No one tells you your body will fight against you and
Vigilance will become your watch word

No one tells you about how much love a human heart can hold
And still have room for more
No one tells you that joy comes in the form of chickadees

And children’s laughter
Yet, when they tell you that the best is yet to come
You do not believe