Social Service League Pitcher

 

This is just a simple little story about finding yourself in the path of good fortune. I was out for my regular walk and stopped in at the Social Service League Thrift Store for no particular reason. I found a slightly cracked blue pitcher that I thought might look good somewhere in my garden. And then I picked up a paperback book of T.S Eliot’s poems. The woman at the counter suggested two bucks and I hope I gave her a little more. I walked out with more treasure than I bargained for.

I had also put my digital camera in my pocket before I left home on the off chance I might take some pictures. And somewhere, as I swung the pitcher in one hand as I walked along, the idea came to me. I placed, especially, the pitcher in among the flowers in the planter boxes as the composition and color somehow looked right to me. Eventually I carried the pitcher along with me over the bridge and then I turned and headed for home, occasionally stopping to take more pictures along the way.

Now the Social Service League is stuck in a financial hard spot. I’ll skip the details, but in addition to being an important shop for people to find real and essential bargains, they are a place that people can go to to get connected to other things that they need. And I find that I belong in that store, sometimes, as well, often finding what I am not looking for.

Here are some more of the pictures.

Summer hot

 

Summer hot has come.

The earth begins to bake.

The sky is bright blue,

the clouds puffed up

and far between.

The sun is behind it all,

or else above it all,

depending on one’s perspective.

A fusion fire so far away,

the blazing radiant heat

barely trickles out

as far as our little spot.

Yet I walk on mostly frying pan sidewalks,

the trees left distilling chlorophyll in sun 

shade some of me.

I will have to pour down

rivers of ice water to replenish

all that has transpired.

Watchful vultures circle on updrafts -

invisible smoke and mirrors.

The hot wind blows in my ears.

The burning sun is shattered

into sparks and shards

against the reflecting water glass

and is not quenched.

I squint.

But my skin is indeed the organ

of receptivity -

summer hot licks my salt.

I will not quarrel if it is

the heat or the humidity.

But I will bow down my head,

my body wilting,

and pray for the night to come.

And then I will raise my head again

to welcome the summer hot day.

 

If you wait

  

If you wait for her –

so you wait –

not like it’s a date.

It’s the prelude to the prom;

the dance precedes the romance.

It’s too soon

in June, for the

the cicadas to croon.

The air too still

for the porch swing

to sing.

The light fades,

a star appears

and Mars nears

to keep you company.

And still she does not ascend.

It’s not for nothing

do you wait.

Not for love nor money

will she hold you.

Nor will she scold you if

in your impatience

you turn and go back inside.

And then, there she is,

not a minute

not a second too soon.

And the moment is not

a heartbeat too late.

Oh, so aged

and full of body she is,

yellowed and deliberate of pace.

But her face is for this -

alone, or perhaps

with a human kiss.

Her light reflects blue-white

as she arcs higher and higher.

She surely cares not

for you alone.

But if you wait for her,

surely she cares.