In Spectrum

It is only a trick of light,
this moment at dawn
as the Earth rolls in
the light of the Sun,
but this shadow play
connects
this time
with time before
and allows my mind to see
what in full daylight
might cause concern
showered
in tangerine and alabaster
and allows me
to strip away
excess
and see
bare truth
but
it is only
a trick of light.

My Morning Tea

I imagine the flavor
to be jasmine
as I shuffle through
the leaves,
pale yellow yesterday,
the morning rain
has darkened them a shade.
The next block
smells of cranberry,
if only in my mind,
the deep reds of the oak
temp me with a spectrum
running amaranth near the trunk
to amber further out.
I carefully select a pile,
scooping them into a puddle
where I stand
until the water
permeates my shoes.
I squish away.
Happy.

Amethyst Shadows

The gray November skies
are easier
to take
when first viewed
as the Sun
burns
on the horizon,
announcing the day
with brilliance
and honor
and amethyst shadows,
rather than
first noticing
fields of gray
through unfocused eyes
and wondering
if the day
even chose
to start.

Light Sheet

Imagine morning light
as a sheet,
coating all it touches,
offering a brief spotlight
to the magic of the ordinary,
causing one to pause
and wonder,
did the one who
imagined this building
stand here and see
a tin roof
playing with maple leaves
under a rose-orange
November
light?

Approaching Aubergine

This morning
the crescent moon
battles
the approaching sunlight
for brilliance,
standing out
even more
against the steadily blueing sky.
Knowing he fights with only
reflected glory,
he soon will settle back,
brilliant still,
but this time
on his own terms.

Pumpkin Sized

The first three cuts are equal,
each an inch in length,
forming a small triangle
against an expanse of orange.
She asks for help then,
adding a circle
on top of her triangle.
I carve while she announces
that we are carving her,
then she hops down
on a quest for paint.
Brown first, for hair
followed by red and purple,
for a bow.
A bigger triangle is next
as her cousin is two years her senior.
(Green and yellow bow)
Then a square because this cousin
is a boy.
(more paint)
The geometric parade
continues
as Grandma,
then me,
then Mom are added.
(We all have blue shoes)
Aunts and uncles
complete the circle
until one touches hands
with her.
She sits back
then tells us
the title
is "Family Love Circle."
And
this moment
swells
to fill
All of the available space
and time
before collapsing back.
Pumpkin sized.

They are All Fish Tales, Really

"They are all fish tales, really"

-- When my mother’s memory began to fade, she asked me,
What will become of me when I don’t have a story?
Not knowing what else to say, I told her, Lie.
                                       --Jane Shlensky


The river that is memory
twists and turns as it winds its way,
picking up silt
and carrying it along
until another force
slows the current
and the silt falls,
sometimes forming a loess,
blocking the flow,
forming pools
on which we fish
for that which was easily
within reach, only yesterday.
So drop in a line
and if it comes up empty
tell the world you caught
a clownfish
and
go on
about the color
and the feel of it
as it wriggled in your hands,
just before
it splashed
away.