On the bridge

 

On one side, 

it looked to me like ducks taking a bath.

They’d duck their heads under water,

then shake all over with their wings.

I looked away, nearly embarrassed. 

And then on the other side

I saw what looked to be

a giant yellow crane

rolling by on about a dozen

huge rubber tires on each side
of the crane.

I mean, has the whole world gone mad,

Michael? Has the whole world finally

gone mad?

Time Lapse at the Dusty Bookshelf

Out of the corner of her eye, as she stood sorting through countless books at the counter in the Dusty Bookshelf, she saw a heavyset man with ruddy cheeks and a white mustache sitting in Alice’s chair with a book open in his hands. He sat slumped in the blue chair where the old cat - the one who had finally never woken up - had usually slept.

The man was fully bundled on this unusually cold and blustery late March day. His coat was zipped up to his chin. His wool cap sparkled with beads of melted snow flakes.

It couldn’t have been but a half-minute later when she glanced up and over. He hadn’t moved. Not an inch. Yet his coat zipper was half way down.

Distracted again for almost no time at all by a customer, she looked again to see his coat zipper all the way down, his winter coat thrown wide open to reveal a very worn, dark sweater. And yet to all appearances, he hadn’t moved a whisker.

The phone rang and then when she turned back, the man’s hat was resting on one knee, which was propped, as if without thought, over his other leg, angled where she was sure it had always been angled. His hair was mussed but he seemed not to even blink.

She stared out of the window. The large, fat snowflakes seemed to fall in slow motion. And then time froze. She felt as if she couldn’t lift up her hand to brush away even a bit of hair that had fallen across her face. She wanted to turn her head to see if the man in the chair had moved, but her body refused to obey her mind.

And then in the stillness, but for the ticking of the clock behind her, she heard a page turn. She looked towards the chair. The man’s lips had curled upwards ever so slightly. And she realized that she had begun to breathe again.

In time

The Frisbee drifted over last years leaves,

I put out my hand to catch it.

It floated on by and as I turned,

a dark-haired woman smiled

and caught my eye.

I walked on, the leaves whispered

to me of the times of love

with each step I took.

The Frisbee flew ahead to a slender man

standing considerably behind my time.

I smiled and thought of a short-haired woman.

I would be home in time for supper.

Old Year's end

I crossed over that ribbon of highway,

that highway had just crossed over the river.

As I stepped onto the curb,

an eagle crossed over above me

and then glided over the river

to a tree on the other side.

I was bundled against the biting cold,

flannel-lined pants over long johns.

Then as I walked on the path below,

heading back towards the bridge,

I saw a woman jogging easily

along the levee above me,

heading downstream.

For every heavy step back I took,

she skipped ahead two.

Her legs were bare and glowing red.

At the dead end of the year,

I took it all I saw for a sign.

The highway will take us nowhere.

The eagle and the woman are

showing me the way.

The sign

The gulls were turning and dipping

over the outwash at Bowersock south.

The winter sun squinted my eyes.

The wind drew moisture from my nose.

I lifted my arms, not to join the gulls,

but to salute their vigor.

Still, I managed

to get one foot off the ground.

One gull left the others

and flew off downstream.

I saw my breath in the air,

outward from where I was gazing.

I think it was a good sign.

Mist

The drizzle was light,

the droplets so fine,

the spacing like skaters on thin ice.

Without the wind on my cheek

and the love I did seek,

I would have missed it all,

after all.

The power of invisiblity

It might be that trees have the power of invisibility.

It seems evident to me that they cannot walk away

and hide behind a light pole.

But people seldom remark on trees

except when they green in spring,

or color yellow and orange and red in the fall.

But on this winter’s day,

I suddenly saw the bare branches of some trees

stretch upwards to grasp at the sky.

And as I stepped along,

the nearer branches crossed over  

in front of farther branches

and then back over my head.

I think that it was the movement of irregular lines,

crossing and crossing again,

that caught my wandering eye.

And then I saw a sycamore standing tall,

silvery white bark reflecting the winter sun into my eyes.

I was not blinded,

but I may have blinked in some amazement,

I have passed by that same spot a hundred times

in a hundred and one days

and only today did I see that sycamore standing there.

It must be the ubiquity of trees,

or my mind preoccupied with everything else,

I walk beneath the sky almost entirely unaware.

Some days, I’m sure, I’ve missed even seeing the sky.

Invisibility is one answer I ponder,

but with the tips of my fingers losing sensation,

I at least have the thought to step into the bookstore.

And then, there she stood behind the counter,

her hair the silvery color of sycamore bark,

strands tied up and crossing over each other

in a knot reaching upwards from the back of her head.

I swear, she must have stood there a hundred times or more

when I have pushed open that door.

I think that beauty stands invisible

as we pass through a forest of trees.

for Trix