I Have An Antique Rose

I have an antique rose; She waits patiently for me. When I draw nigh with pruning shears, She utters not a plea. Her thorny branches twine in knots, They tangle by degrees. Yet when I start to thin them out, She neither fights nor flees. She stands in proud defiance, An indomitable foe; It’s ne’erContinue reading “I Have An Antique Rose”

Dump Trip Saturday

Dump Trip Saturday is sacred among Saturdays. It stands alone unto itself, unique and holy. Its rites and rituals are solitary and serene; their execution is communal (and clamorous!). . Dump Trip Saturday is always borne from Saturdays past: A pile of scraps after a completed project, appliances failed beyond repair, a neglected playhouse, aContinue reading “Dump Trip Saturday”

Flagstones

It can hardly but sober a man to consider how he will be remembered after he at last shuffles off this mortal coil. Will he, in that dim light of dusk on Jordan’s bank, depart in the assurance that he done all, lived all, loved all that he could? Will he, when his works become manifest on that Day and are tested by fire, have anything to show for that which he toiled under the sun? Did he, as Moses prayed, number his days aright?

Down the Cellar This Morning

Suddenly, without warning, without precedent or prelude, On a dreary January morning, in the grey and lingering damp, It happened that Summer startled me— quite unannounced and unexpected. It shocked me, there in the cellar, sifting through cobwebs, extension cords, milk crates, and mesh bags of walnuts— the implements and incomplete aspirations of Saturdays past.Continue reading “Down the Cellar This Morning”

Ode to a Housewife’s Mixing Bowl

Appurtenance to a small appliance, Instrument of domestic industry. Kitchen companion of thirteen years, Caressed by thirteen thousand scars. She is more anvil than hammer, More mule than Muse. She is a basin, not a fountain, But from her arms are borne the cakes of joy, the bread of life, and the loaves of consolation.Continue reading “Ode to a Housewife’s Mixing Bowl”

Peaches

Every summer it happens—It happens that I become paralyzed,Paralyzed, that is, with the decisionAs to which of my girlsTo nickname “Peach.”The paralysis stems from the considerationThat each one is worthy,And to a verifiable extent:Dear to my heart,Locally sourced,As fresh as summer dew,With a hint of tartness,Rosy as the dawn,And a sublime companion to waffles. JulyContinue reading “Peaches”

The Desk of My Daughter

The desk of my daughterAt the window facing westIsn’t cleared before dinnerDespite her mother’s behest. A clean desk would be(Though it’s never been seen)A surface that’s flat,Polished, shiny, and clean. But much like the worldOn the Out side of the pane,The girl at the deskNever stays just the same. She’s constantly growing,Thinking, changing, creating.The worldContinue reading “The Desk of My Daughter”