On Sundays

I am in the mid-morning sunlight with my grandmother beneath her magnolia tree.  The flowers of spring have just opened after a soft rain and a warm night.  My sister plays nearby  in the yard, searching for toads hidden in the wet grass as my grandmother frets over the life of the blossoms.  She always worries that the blooms come too soon or too late or that a windy day will take them from her, sending the white petals floating down 7^th Street.  She worries about wilting heat or nipping frost in the air.  As she studies each infant flower, some of them still teasing their way out of round buds, I study her.  My grandmother’s form is mirrored in the curved branches of the tree.  I pray my hair turns the same silver, soft as down feathers, and my worries are as weightless as the petals on her mind.  The sun distills lacy light through the canopy of leaves that covers the ground and us.  She stands…

steady and silent

with her hand in her pockets

watching her tree grow

On a Hot Day

He pinches his wife’s skin

touching her salt to his tongue

to cut the bitterness of his words.

Light bouncing off the sun tea stuns her

momentarily as she fondles

an ice cube pendant dripping

down the nape of her neck

as she imagines wringing her shirt

into a jar, wishing she would have

pickled his last morning kiss- 1966.

She trips the sprinkler for the kids.

He nods off, swatting away snores like flies.

She speaks, Shhh…now we whisper…

And her children learn the language

of the sea and the rhythm of waves

in the chk chk chk spraying out seconds.

The young ones poke at drowned anthills

and buoyed sweet gum balls

in puddles of a sodded corner lot.

Their feet, sandy with mud

and wet with tar from the bubbling street

Thoughts During a Bottle of Wine

Leather, cigar box, lead pencil, tar –

relics left buried that surface

through roots to the fruit of ancient vines

so old and deep the first winemakers

built their vineyards around them

not daring to disturb the earth,

ash, and kerosene of their plots.

The Rhone’s blistering winds

pound black pepper and spice

into thick skins that timidly soften

to the sun, the heat coaxing from their core

jam and chocolate --

buried valentines that refuse to be forgotten

in the stony soil, churned into dirt

and expressed in tannins

thick enough to chew.

Terrior

I thought of cutting my limbs

to see the rings of my age

for proof that the weight I feel

is of many lifetimes beyond the one I know.

I wanted to see the fire of wars

and drought of my seasons

scarred in fibrous circles

surrounding my bones,

plotting a history of moments

made of breath and growth

in a thick skin.

I thought of peeling back my layers

to see the scaffolding of my ancestors

around which my form is molded.

I wanted to find each face of my origin

become more evident

as I slough translucence

from the surface where I finally find

the first one of us within me,

hair darker and yes wider

than my diluted image.

I thought of drinking by blood

to taste the sun-dried soil fed through my veins

from earth I never touched but crave

to sift through my fingers

I wanted to detect hints

of residual pencil shavings and tobacco

from writers and smokers of my bloodline

that are concentrated in me

and seem to linger like the finish on a Cabernet

Series of Haiku

Each of my father’s

Italian Uncles wore hats

while grilling sausage

***

New Zealand wine rolls

over my tongue tasting like

wet stones and kiwi

***

My husband’s birthmark

is the size of my thumbprint

and soft as Lamb’s Ear

*************

Roses for my grandma

and my grandfather’s mistress

on the same receipt

**************

Fried chicken feather

the day of his funeral

spoils my appetite

***************

She confuses hours

A.m. or p.m.?  she thinks

and then makes breakfast