Cleaning out her grandmother’s home she found only one mirror. Hidden in the back of a drawer buried under delicate handkerchiefs. Some with embroidered flowers, others with faded tatted edging. It had multiple cracks but the maple handle’s patina still glowed.
The bouquet began drooping days ago. Calla lily bodies downed, long stems succumbed to gravity. Sunflower heads ruffled edges turning brown, faces no longer meet the eye. Nearby, on oak sidebar, shriveled pink-veined orchid petals ready to fall.
Retreated to their tents they sleep encased in sleeping bags. Bought on sale, blue cloth on the outside. Inside, cowboys ride horses, stand with guns holstered by cacti. Childlike Western print on bright yellow flannel. Embers pale in campfire ash.
Gathered for their fiftieth they take the tour, campus now lush with trees. Three-story new student center sports three dining options, baristas in the Coffee Corner. Library tables barren, minus green Readers’ Guides to Periodical Literature. Fossils still displayed in the Geology Museum.
Scientist by training, environmentalist by trade, he took over cooking after retirement. Meticulous shopping lists. Weekly menu spreadsheets. One recipe covers two nights. Red aproned in black and white tiled galley kitchen. Meal cooked, served, eaten. Leftovers stored for another day.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Bjorn asks us to write a Cadralor. This is a relatively new poetry form. It is comprised of five unrelated, highly-visual stanzas. Each stanza must stand alone as a poem. Stanzas should be fewer than ten lines and usually each stanza has the same number of lines. Imagery is crucial – each stanza should be like a scene or a photograph. The fifth stanza is the crucible and should answer the question “For what do you yearn?” In the case of Remainders, I’m emphasizing that the leftovers, in each of the stanzas, has or has had value. In the last stanza, leftovers is taken literally.
Sum days her mirror reflects the years. Grooves etched beside eyes, crevices left from emotional stress. Blue veined highwayed hands tattle, leaving behind tremor shaken script. But open-toed shoes reveal her true self. Shining sterling peace-sign toe ring, defiant purple glitter-polish on her nails.
Quadrille written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today De is hosting and asks us to use the word “groove” or a form of the word, in our Quadrille (a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title). Image from Pixabay.com
This Iowa field, this Iowa day. I stand in the midst of flowers green grasses waving, sun’s warmth soaking my skin. Double hollyhocks stand tall. Gaillardia faces blush, edged in sherbet yellow ruffles. Ethereal clouds float lazily, cotton ball fluffs like white misshapen dots on seersucker blue sky. Newly painted barn gleams surrounded by emerald shrubs, trees and hills. Ah yes, Iowa, you are indeed the heartland, loved by so many.
Love and laughter abound from youngest to oldest, three generations. Memories shared, stories told, memories made. The circle of love goes around and round . . . . . . we are blessed to still be aboard. Thankful for every day.
All photos from last weekend….and what a joyful time we had at a marvelous VRBO farmhouse in Virginia!
Three apple trees. Due date approaching. Branches loaded with fruit, over-ripe ones on ground sickly sweet with buzzing bees. Fresh picked apples brought inside, peeled carefully, cut in halves, sliced after cores are tossed. Seasoned with cinnamon, allspice and nutmeg they’re left to sit, making their own juice. I move the rolling pin over the dough, stretching it carefully into shape, leaning in as close to counter as my swollen belly allows. And then I feel it. Shirt lifted, I look….. our soon-to-be little one is rolling too. Crusts placed gingerly in aluminum pie pans spicy scented apple mixture poured into tins. Butter pads scattered on top, then top crust placed. Crimping dough I smile, remembering. Yesterday I folded sweet little undershirts, cloth diapers, and placed them just so on shelf in second-hand bassinette. Pies made, into the freezer they go. All the preparations done, we wait. Iowa’s winter won’t seem so harsh this year. We’ll have that heavenly apple aroma as one of our pies bake, and we’ll be holding a tiny baby boy or girl ever so closely in our arms.
Knees creak. Arms once firm, crepe in thinning skin. Hands stiff in morning show off puffed blue veins, like highways on ancient road map. Grey hair brittles, mine still thick, yours not so. Burgeoning cataracts blur our pleasure but still we embrace life and love, changed as it is.
Diapers, bedtime stories, Christmas stockings. Driving them to lessons, reading report cards. Wound up like a top I whizzed through the arcane. Now in my golden years I think back and realize. I should have paid more mind. The arcane was indeed the miraculous.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting and ask people to include the word “wound” or a form of the word in a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Notice that “wound” is a homograph. There are two pronunciations and each has a different meaning: He suffered a wound in battle. VS She is wound up like a top. Folks are free to use either pronunciation/meaning or both! If using both, their poem must still consist of exactly 44 words, not including the title.
Photos are of our children who are now 45 and 46! And yes that’s me, about forty years ago!