Tiny hand with thumbs up
In sonic waves of gray
Tiny foot with five toes
To kick a ball someday
Little boy, Little man
Can you hear our sheer delight?
We await with big plans
To share your new born life
Ride a bike. Swim a lake
Learn to skate and drive a truck
Warm your bath. Teach you math
We can’t wait to share our luck.
We’ve been blessed with more than we deserve
You’re a miracle come true.
Three more months, rest up, grow strong grandson
There’s much for us to do.
I wake first light and early with the dawn
Greeted by the feathered friends morning song
Quiet winds slip softly pass my window
Invites my spirit come enjoy the show
See morning rays break through the darkened night
Watch orange streaks cast day across the sky
Through filtered limbs the branches silhouette
The feathered chorus rising higher yet
Alone I sit to gather my day plans
Daybreak begs me to join the song began
The trail I know lie out in dark it waits
For me to join the feathered friends today
It’s hard to see you lying there
wide eyed, staring, mouth agape
at something only you can see
floating high up in the ceiling
requiring your full focus.
It’s hard to know what to say
if you can hear the words
as I whisper your name
along side your bed
leaning closer to your ear
saying how much you are loved.
It’s hard to watch you thrash about
when I hold your hand
recounting my silly foibles
and laughing a little too loudly
hoping you’ll know it’s me.
It’s hard to believe you are here
confined to this bed
locked in this betraying body,
the same one that flew midair
trailed by swirling silk scarfs
as you leapt from your circus trapeze.
It’s hard to believe
you have survived and thrived
beyond the Nation’s worse disaster
coming out the sweet southern rose
with dignity and grace from above.
It’s hard to watch your beloved
caring, so gently, touching, cooing
in a way I have not seen,
promising a future of wellness
in days and days at home.
It’s hard to wonder how you feel
what you think, if you’re scared,
if you even know we are here.
It’s just hard.
The road reaches out before me in bright
Crystal highway, sparkling sun, radiant
Burst, blinding rays. Days on days into night
My constant companion, invariant
Black top. Don’t stop rolling beneath my seat
Transport my weary soul to meet my dreams
Down this long road, somewhere warm, some place sweet
Guided by your broken white highway seams
The crowd they come and duly find their route
Distance drawing I remain steady fast
Fast they come, blinking, weaving, in and out
Fast I hold my place, sure to be the last
Till clear road stretches light and bright again
Pulls forward, one more mile closer to my end.
The real question is …. When should you stop wearing a bikini? It doesn’t seem to be that big of a question to fashion columnists or most other women my age. The fashion magazines say no one over thirty belongs in one and apparently my peers have bought into this edict. But not me, no sir. Instead I cling with fading hope to my itsy, bitsy, teeny, weenie, one size larger this year bikini.
Maybe the real question is whether or not I actually belonged in one in the first place. I’ve never had the perfect swimsuit shape. Perhaps it’s this acceptance of imperfection that has in the long run blurred the lines of appropriateness for me.
One day I’ll be laying on a beach in Catalina sipping margaritas with a friend, surrounded by firmer but less confident twenty-something’s and thinking I’m doing just fine in my little black suit. And then one week later I’ll see a photo of a Mexican beached whale and gasp when I realize that muffin top whale roll belongs to me.
It’s not just a size factor, there’s also the age issue. At 40 I could convince myself that those magazine articles were just wrong, but at 50 maybe I’m the one that’s wrong.
Still, each time I head to the beach I reach for the fun, string held, two piece suit instead of a more sensible form of cover. It’s just not time yet. I’m just not ready to retire the attire of my youth. Maybe when I’m 60. Who knows…maybe not.
Today the water is flat, outside my third floor patio perch, two blocks back, with hot coffee and Kahlua in hand. The days roll out slowly like this. Birds greeting the morning sun, and one by one my companions join me stretching from their slumber with bed head hair and rumpled clothes.
The mornings are peaceful and reflective. We speak in quiet tones and walk with gentle feet making up for the celebrating and poolside noodle dancing of the night before. Ah, the noodle dance, an interpretive new genre of movement that is part ballet and modern flow combined with exotic dance, all done with the aid of a bright pink floatie noodle. It’s silly and all fun till someone gets hurt. This time it was me who took the tumble after a particularly challenging one foot balancing move. So much for the noodle dance.
So this morning we wander each in our own silence. We gather scattered clothes. We whisper good mornings and listen to the soft roll of the water as it meets the shore.
Mexico days let us forget our other-side border lives. We waken slowly, play like children and spend hours floating in the flat surf on pink noodles while dolphins take turns dancing for us. I think they are hoping to borrow my noodle too.
I left my vines alone to grow
Sprout leaves and push through their white tubes
With no one there to see them raise
Their reaching arms to the light at high noon
The soil I’ve toiled and tilled and turned
The water run to each a drip
I’ve watched each bud and branch unfurl
Awaiting the fruit that someday I’ll sip
My vines I’ve left at home alone
Without my daily praise and song
I hope they know they are still beautiful
And that I won’t be gone for long