sisters sittimg

They walk hand-in-hand

One, jauntily, with a light innocence to her step
As if the world held no possibility of pain
And each day was destined to contain
Both a dance and a song

The other steps regally
Each stride a confident sweep
Allowing for no obstacles or delays
Knowing the world would most certainly comply

They approach together
Holding similar, long-fingered hands
That swing slightly between them with each step
Two so different, yet the same

For they are sisters

Throughout their lives
Their relationship will dance
Each accommodating individual loves and losses
But always, the bond will remain
Of shared memories
Shared values

Whether miles apart or hand-in-hand
Their two lives will stay inexorably linked

Though they see the world through different lenses
They can face it together
For they are sisters

Dreams of Flying


I used to dream of flying
With no warning my feet would drift off the concrete
Sometimes effortless
Sometimes straining
Like swimming through air
I would watch the grass disappear beneath my feet
And begin to soar

Tumbling through hoary limbs and dancing leaves
Skimming the tree tops
In my dream, I was never surprised
I knew, in my secret self, that I was always meant to fly
In my dream I was simply being who I was meant to be

I no longer remember my dreams
Or, if I do, they are muddled messes
Not worth considering
Or worth retaining
Where no hint of soaring
Intrudes upon staid and mundane puzzles
Involving forgotten deadlines
Or articles dropped just beyond my reach
Where I awaken with a hazy, unrecalled after-taste
Slightly disturbing
But easily put aside
In favor of the reality of a new day

Maybe, as my life proceeds
I will again find my way
Back to the dreams of my youth
Where flying is a given
And getting from here to there
Is not even close to a straight line
Rather, it involves a slow loop around the eagle’s nest
Followed by a victory roll

 …and I awaken with a smile


Setting the Scene

colors of nature

The scene begins with a gentle baby blue
Offset by streaks of crimson and violet

Abruptly, apricot sweeps across our view
Madly twirling through gold trimmed ribbons of tangerine

Ragged black interrupts those sweet jewel-tones of heaven
And draws our attention to the water

Where spackled rims of icy silver
Vie with sprinkles of sea-salt

From sapphire to ruby and back again
…Mother Nature truly knows how to paint a scene…

Ode to Varnish


The smell is the thing
That catches your ‘eye’
It lives up your nose
Refusing to die
It’s tacky and gooey
And sticks in strange places
Even occasionally
On unknowing faces

If the wind’s from the south
Or the clouds start to cry
Persnickety varnish
Refuses to dry
Too hot or too cold
It matters so much
 My just-painted varnish
Stays tacky to touch

But the thing about varnish
That most comes to mind
When I think of the hours
And hours of time
Is the odd satisfaction
From that off-hand remark
That passers-by sometimes make
When we’re about to embark

“Ooooh, who does your brightwork?”
…I smile knowingly…

me working looking up1

(my thanks to my sister for suggesting varnish deserved at poem…and my apologies to those of you who follow both my blogs, since this entry will be appearing in both places)