Waking

With no thought or plan, both hands surround

the nose to create a cozy tent where smells

of coffee, tendrils of chocolate and blessed

earthiness of mushroom all at once arise

as I sit draped in a blue bathrobe, warm

and relaxed on Winter’s Sunday morning.

Outside, the sky through spindly Melaleuca branches,

bright yet hazy, beckons. Suddenly, an old friend

arrives inside my reverie with little notice knocking

as he does in haste, and loudly, many times each day.

The tent in a flash is taken down as this urge

to piss steps onto center stage, the imagined

wealth of wondrous odors quickly severed,

dissolving like a doused bonfire.

I further wake to stand straight and march,

a loyal soldier with no time to waste

nor nose for dreams and contemplation,

towards the nearby bathroom door.

            Graced

A day of simple translucence.

Awake early, no memory of dreaming.

Two cups of coffee, strong, softened with cream, just right.

The melaleuca tree shimmered in sun through a transparent window.

No one called before noon. I felt such contentment.

Later, weeded the yard, thankful for fingers in dirt, blue bucket brimming with green.

Down the street kids played baseball in afternoon light. Fathers and uncles with kindness coached new skills.

Thoughts of Quincy my grandson brought big smiles. Soon I’ll travel north to visit him and his parents.

And now, up high to the left a palm tree shimmies and sings in breezes at nightfall as I wait to meet Ana, my friend.

                From Europe, With Love

I wanted something, I wanted. I could not have it. As close

as that pint of ice cream is right now in the freezer,

the kitchen 15 feet away. Instantly she’d felt like home.

No, her third floor walk-up apartment in a strange

yet familiar part of the planet on a chilled November day

felt like home. The small kitchen overlooking a church and field,

the warm bath after the long flight and an hour driving

to her town through drizzle past bare trees,

then trout with beetroot soup, cherry wine and

homemade chocolate cake for our first dinner, how tall

and pretty she was in person at the bleak Eastern European

airport that reminded me of a rust-belt bus station. We hugged

and I thought “I’m glad I came.” Here in Loreta’s small home,

comfort and belonging were redolent of family holidays

when dad remained calm, even friendly, unusually tender.

Weeks later, buying the card for her downtown, I felt awkward, numbly

standing in line with laughing school children buying afternoon snacks,

old women purchasing chicken and onions for supper. The long walk

over the blue bridge past the funicular and up the steep hill one last time,

placing the card on the kitchen table, then a couple of drinks our final night

while she sat across the table and watched patiently. No, more like tolerated

my wish to have a beer at a neighborhood bar I’d read about

in my ‘Lonely Planet’ guidebook.

Two weeks’ later my new underwear and socks bought for the trip,

forgotten that final dark morning in a dresser drawer next to the new bed

that we never slept in, arrived in a brown envelope at my mailbox,

a small candle and note tucked within, something about keeping the light.

I dished up a big bowl of gelato, not sure I kept the candle.

If You're Quiet

Scraping cloud-cover 
from the threshold,

voyagers without maps 
dream of birch trees

and grandfathers under winter skies

whispering forgotten stories 
in a secret language. 

If you’re quiet, you can hear 
them quivering in half light 

across the lake 
at dusk.