"there was once a boy..."

"mother, what are these," I asked that afternoon
at the end of a long day of dust and faded memories
long-stored in trunks and crates just under the eaves
not even a week before they were to sell the house

the paper crepe-y and fragile as her mother's skin,
postage stamps from countries no longer found on maps
and mother's name from before she was my father's wife
all leave me trembling with something not familiar

her eyes, once fierce with parental conviction and certainty
now softer in the twilight of grandchildren and widowhood
spark and stir with memories I cannot see, but begin to feel
she is still passionate beneath the dusting of years
and I know, without her saying, that there was once a boy
who went away and never returned

"please," she begs with hands out-stretched
reaching for his voice folded in the onion-skin of yesterday
i hold them out to her, the holy grail of her girlhood
tied up in the pale blue ribbon that might have once held her hair
she does not stir, untie the soft knot or unfold a page
but lifts them to her face and breathes deeply a perfume lost

she lays them in her lap and gently fold her hands over his name
her wedding rings, now loose and heavy on her slender hands
are the only story I've ever known, and yet I glimpse
behind the wistful smile in her distant eyes there is a secret
she has held so tenderly that it has survived the decades of
responsibility, devotion, and a desire to live for us

and so I sit with her and hold the space for his return
the boy who held my mother when she was but a girl
the soldier who's letters waited until she was a widow
to remind her of the dreams she'd tied in ribbons on the day
she learned he always be a boy who went to war

"when you were twenty-three..."

when you asked me to tell you
all about "when you were twenty-three"
did you think that I would not remember
the way his kisses tasted or the rise of
the road through cornfields as we
flew home with wind-tangled hair and the
promise of ripe tomatoes we'd eat like apples

did you think I could forget the scent
of baby oil and iodine rising from
sun-hot skin, or the heady perfume of
night jasmine coming through the open
windows where threadbare curtains
ebbed and flowed like waves against
the threshold of my dreaming

did you wonder if I could still feel
the ache of his leaving and the
emptiness of not knowing if he would
ever return to keep his promises of
white lace and forever under a canopy
of stars that pulsed with magic

twenty-three was James Taylor and
Carly Simon stil together and singing
of Terra Nova and the thrill of
her smiling face. It was a restored barn
on the edge of nowhere and a copper
bathtub we filled with water from the
well and heated by wood fire, it was
air that pulsed with another tomorrow

twenty-three is as alive today as
it was when a lifeguard's sweatshirt
with frayed sleeves, hung long and loose
around my insecurities and I buried my
hopes in the arms of a man who would
leave me in September for another
coast, hoping I would not drown in the
that fathomless reservoir of heartache
he left behind only to return by Christmas
and find me gone

"a threshold to the heart..."

coming through the whispered songs of secrets never told
you find a door now hidden where dark-fingered branches
lift like bridal lace from the threshold of Love's promise

come near it beckons from beyond the veil, come nearer
still to where the softest touch of kind words and
holier views crown your head with dreams and your
hopes with something brighter than the dawning of
tomorrow through the fragile fall of winter's kiss

and so you draw close to where the virgin blue of a
summer sky is painted on the canvas of your dreaming
where the scent of honeysuckle wafts from within
and the sound of swallows carve the night sky into
tomorrow's morning calm upon an endless placid lake
while smoke curls you into hibernation for just another
day of waiting

"cream of wheat mornings..."

the mornings were cold in the small cottage
at the end of the lane, just beyond the circle drive
once a carriage house for carts and sleighs and
an old Jeep from just after the last great war

it now housed this family of eight children, our
parents, two cats, and a little dog named muffin
who liked to chase squirrels and watch cardinals
out beyond the picture window under the eaves

each morning it was my job to get up first and
start breakfast. yet, as many times as I did
I could never remember the proportion of water
to cream of wheat. I'd squint at the chart on the
box and multiply cups and teaspoons until
I was sure I'd have enough to feed all ten of us.

water at a rolling boil, just the right amount of
salt in the palm of my hand, thrown in with equal
parts -- style and carelessness. 

Then the grains of finely milled wheat 
sprinkled into a cauldron of steaming, bubbling 
water as slowly and evenly as those first soft 
flakes of snow now falling beyond the bird feeder

bring back to a boil, then reduce to a simmer
stirring constantly, pour into bowls -- a little milk,
a dab of butter, and as much brown sugar
as you could get away with...ten little blue bowls
of sweet warmth to carry us all the way to
school, and through the day

the youngest still making roads and valleys 
through her mush, as mother waves from the door 
and the bus pulls away from the end of the drive
a swath of dark frozen earth that quickly disappears
beneath a blanket of fresh fallen snow in February

"winter's kiss..."

the house was cold that morning as the snow fell
wrapping saturday in a mantle of stillness
filled with an unspoken promise, we held 
our breath, and crept beyond the threshold 
tiptoeing through the silence hoping the magic 
of it all would stretch beyond the dawn

armed with books, and cups of steaming tea, 
we crawl back in between pillows and quilts, 
to steep ourselves in poetry and prayer
crossword puzzles and the breathing
of old walls beneath the soft glow of lamplight 
slipping between the folds of vintage fabrics 
my grandmother once stitched for a son's 
first year at college or a niece's wedding night 
before he went to war

i will dream in stanza's as morning  
slips into a sunless day
and all that calls me towards tomorrow 
hibernates beneath a blanket of hushed demands 
and the stunned surprise of a silence unsought 
and as dusk arrives and snow still sifts
through a darkening sky like powdered sugar 
I'll whisper a sigh of gratitude 
serenely sweet 
for winter's kiss of suspended time

"a summoning to grace..."

"come" it calls, "come home to where my
arms are open and my heart is singing just for you
a song that beckons -- fly across the night
and chase the sun to reach me long before the dawn

hear me crying out  full voice, eyes closed
there is nothing I will not do to draw you closer
no indignity I will not suffer

to bring you here before the sun arrives  

we will watch the dawn of a new year
rise from the east in shades of blue more subtle
than the sea beneath a stormy sky or the eyes
of an infant following her mother's smile

come, it calls, come to where we may sift the
stillness through outstretched fingers spread
wide with wonder as the weightless gifts of grace
dance between us and draw us closer still
come, come, come

you are being summoned to the moment 

of your awakening on the crest 

of this new day, come sit with me 

and we will fix our gaze on the horizon 

of your hopes 

 as the daystar rises in your heart