A Monument to Spring

"In Japan, cherry blossoms also symbolize clouds due to their nature of blooming en masse, besides being an enduring metaphor for the ephemeral nature of life."*  This is what struck me about the cherry blossoms.  Many people, if they did not know, might walk along the National Mall oblivious to the upcoming crescendo, the peek of cherry blossom season.  They are breath-taking, but incredibly short-lived.  They are gone just as quickly as they came.

In memory of the cherry blossom season, the recent tragedy in Boston and of all families who have recently lost friends or family members, including one of our own, Keith.  This is for you.

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Along the tidal basin,

Rimmed soft with downy blooms

Like the collar of a fur coat,

Where once, bare limbs exposed their stark vulnerability,

Now laden with delicate transitory blooms,

The ethereal stands juxtaposed with the temporal.

Beneath the evanescent canopy,

Soft tunnels unfurl

Though which dappled light falls speckled

As phosphorescent gold

On shoulders of admirers,

Who pass along on the path.

These weathered limbs, their long arms dangling,

From the edges of the water,

Dip into the deep pools

Bowing in a unified armistice. 

The serene spectacle, a monument to spring,

To hopeful peace--

A memoir of life,

And a reminder of fragility. 

 *Choy Lee, Khoon. Japan—between Myth and Reality. 1995, page 142.

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• Thinking of Sandy Hook.

Embrace from the Sea

A billion white specks,

Pulverized flecks
Of pearl sands
That cling to our hands,
Our feet, our toes.
Found many days after
                   Still in our clothes.

They are e a c h
                   A lingering
                              Embrace
                              From the sea.

Meadow Strings

Meadow Strings

Beyond the back veranda
And windowed door, agape in the autumn air
Carried on the shaded, hushed breath of twilight
Is the sound of crickets buzzing.
In their shrill sopranos,
A ricocheting orchestra
Chirps from both sides
Of the quiet curve of the paved promenade--
An all day concert
That cycles
With an evening crescendo.

The Master Speed

For Angela and James on their wedding day.  Two people who are made for each other.

The Master Speed
By Robert Frost

No speed of wind or water rushing by
But you have a speed far greater. You can climb
Back up a stream of radiance to the sky,
And back through history up the stream of time.
And you were given this swiftness, not for haste
Nor chiefly that you may go where you will.
But in the rush of everything to waste,
That you may have the power of standing still—

Off any still or moving thing you say.
Two such as you with a master speed
Cannot be parted nor be swept away
From one another once you are agreed
That life is only life forevermore
Together wing to wing and oar to oar.

The Early Hours

The Early Hours

While darkness hangs
Heavy on the lighted sill,
A cacophony of chirps
Salute the early streaking of the sun.
Two beady eyes blink open
Into a quiet peaceful gaze,
And soft blankets rustle in the stillness--
Not ready yet to sound the morning
With a cry or wail or whimper.
Yours is a gentle, slow anticipation

A pondering,                   
Hesitation.
And then a flap of arms
And thudding of twinned feet.

With a resounding creak of the door
A sliver of pale light creeps in
And accepts that it is day.
Mine is the joyful jolt of arms
And flutter of feet
The first beaming grin of dawn
Satisfied sigh
And nuzzling at the cages of my frame.

The fabric of night is pushed aside
And door widened open
Unearthing the fragrant scent of seaspray
Heavy with the morning dew
And lingering in the air.
With cool crispness
Between our toes,
Ours in the morning
As we welcome in aurora's light.

The Valley

 

The Valley

This afternoon
We took a drive
When the rustling of tired feet,
Hushed by the flashing of passed by trees,
Turned to a short contented sigh.
Down into the vacant valley
We ventured to the fringes
Beyond our quiet town--
Down the infinite winding road
Destiny unknown,
Where moss grows thick like an overcoat
And clings to trees in wispy beards,
Where trees buttress the hidden sky
In the dark ominous cathedral of this enchanted wood.
We drive, as led by forest nymphs,
Until pulled from our reverie
By a quiet stirring
Followed by the piercing cry of wakefulness.

The Old Rugged Ship

The Old Rugged Ship

Some think it melancholy
To see this old abandoned ship
Moored in the harbor.
It is a mere shadow of its former days,
Idly rapping dockside--
Its weather-beaten, frail frame
And near-empty deck.
But fierce loyalty has kept it here
At anchor, silent in its solitude.

Its half-mast sails worn grey
Bow etched with the vigorous years
That Grace had given it.
The turbid waters, reflections of deep mourning

And mirror-remnant meditation
Of quiet camaraderie upon the seas.
There it will sway--lone, steady.

'Til by foul weather or by sweet release
It drifts with the tide
And settles abreast
Its fallen fleet at sea.

At Market

At market

Beneath the silver lining of my private  sky,
I peer with heavy lids
Laden with the need for sleep.
Yet I am transfixed by marvels
Unknown to me,
Sounds somewhat familiar
From months spent tucked tightly
In a taut cocoon:
The low din of a throng of voices;
Bustling echoes lost while wandering
Through the clusters of strawberries,
Ruby raspberries, jeweled cherries
In small bright pyramids;
The rows of rich dark chocolates, soft floral cakes, and  sticky glossy tarts;
And clusters of radiant flowers, looping and curling.
As I bumble by, eyes glassy and wide and rimmed with red,
I cannot, will not, close my eyes
And shut the wonder out.

Three Lone Adventurers

 

Three lone adventurers

The clouds descend
Thick and opaque like molasses
Curling themselves in oppressive wisps and piles.
They encompass the mountains,
Blockading any warmth or light,
And pelt down heavy fecund raindrops
That will last for weeks.
They barricade the familiar in their dwellings
Preventing the customary collection in local haunts.
Instead they coil up in nests of heavy down duvets
To chase the ebbing of elusive sleep,
The fruition of brilliant blue bird days.
What brave and hearty souls,
These three alone,
Will unfurl from their lair of warmth
To brave the fury of the temperamental skies.

Divergence

Divergence

There are two disparate worlds,
That often verge
By unexpected happenstance:
The past in one
The present in the other.
The latter, in covert disguise
Large black broad-rimmed hat
And shaded eyes,
Glides past
Ducking her head
Avoiding eyes.
Do not pry with your polluted fingers
Into the fragile peace--
This world
Unscathed by obligations,
Hurried pace,  worries words, endless to-dos--a laundry list of procrastinations.
We catch a glimpse each other
As if through rear view mirrors
A pretension of not seeing,
And part ways untainted,
Hoping that neither took offense.

Cocoon

Cocoon

Sweet restless child
Your arms a-flail, your whimpers
Beg for sleep.
Wrapped in a soft, secure cocoon,
You still--
Eyes closing with the lead-heaviness of sleep,
Arms fall soft like petals worshiping the sun,
Clenched fingers unfurl
And gently strum my ribcage like a harp.
Head resting,
You succumb to sleep.

Whilst trees limbs wave above our heads,
And vines and leaves caress our sides,
We plod the well-trodden trail,
A sort of pilgrimage to sleep.

Once the heat of the sun has kissed
And shadows soothed us,
In the long, languid hours of the afternoon,
You wake from the traces of sleep that line your face,
Damp froth of curls,
Lured by the sweet nectar smell of milk.

Shoulder Sleep

 

Shoulder sleep 

There is a serenity that resonates
From his strong broad shoulders--
A Father, his deep voice reverberating
In his chest,
Head to heart,
Makes a soothing deep lullaby
Of reassurance,
Of groundedness and security
That brings blissful slack-jawed sleep.

Summer Saunter

Summer saunter

Along the path we saunter
In the quiet calm,
Lulled by the clear meandering stream,
Cloistered from harsh heat
And summer rays.
We scuff our feet along,
Kicking up dirt,
Launching long weathered sticks into the brook,
As carefree as when we were children--

No agenda, no schedule.
Just us and our day
Kept clear from the clutter
Of calendars, of places to be, and people to see.

We pause
                  and absorb the beauties.
Small fish that hover in clear waters
And consider where cool springs come from,
Gaze at the lazy cotton balls of fluff
That float through the p a r t i n g of trees,
Gliding down beams of light,
That streak into the dark dampness of the shadowed wood.
We discuss solar flares and northern lights
And revel in losing ourselves
To peaceful, easy afternoons.

Small Universe

Small universe

I hold a tiny universe in my mere mortal arms.
I, your over-arching sky,
Am in awe at the aching weight of its small greatness--
A reminder of healing, of newness, of rejuvenation
And the promise of a tumbling of generations.