Mortality

My new-found companion and I have begun

our fated journey, melded one to the other,

following the signs and symptoms of blood and bone

to that journey’s end, an indeterminate finality,

a journey we must take together, friends or foes,

ready or not, to its end; only then, will the fates release us

as they joined us, restored, renewed, and a new journey

beginning, a yet unknown journey you cannot take –

you must take your own journey, each of you, each of us –

so wish us well, and yourself, safe travels, wishes

for the wind at your back, the sun on your face, soft rain,

and God to hold you in his palm, until we meet again;

may our journeys by fruitful and safe.

Apple Smell Everywhere!

(based on Sunday at the Apple Orchard by Peter Meinke)

September, autumn in the air, temperatures cooling,

that crisp bite of a morning chill, sweater weather

in the waning season of summer, fall settling in,

and the orchards now taking on a life of their own,

reds and greens and yellows heavy on the branches,

ripe for picking, plucked for pies and tarts, apple sauce

and cider, apples ripe for eating right off the tree;

and in the air, refreshed this Sunday afternoon,

apple smell everywhere; breathe it in, long breaths

taking in that sweet smell, making us for one Sunday

afternoon free to remember other autumn days

long gone by, first days of school, squeaky floors

and chalk dust, and Saturday football games, a marching

band, and a still remembered school fight song sung

loud amidst the cheering crowd, bleachers swaying,

thunderous roars and points scored, and her hand

warm in my own, years ago and still, if only in memory,

at the apple orchard, apple smell everywhere … free 

and happy as people must have been meant to be.

And where will you find me

but among the stars dancing

in the periphery of sight,

sideward glances, or glimmering

on a mirrored lake, moonlit,

or perhaps on a lazy cloud floating

overhead, outlined by a blue sky;

just smile and wave and say “hello,”

for that is where I will be, waiting.

Hey, Gram ...

I need a hug,

and a molasses cookie

            from the cookie jar

            on the shelf,

and you,

            whose only judgement

            was that I was a good kid,

                        despite the little white lies

                        and sneaking into the attic to play

                        and jumping on Grampy’s bed,

and some quiet time to color

in the safety of your kitchen.