On Hearing of the Death of a Classmate

By the standards we set in our youth,

we are old now, well past the age of thirty

that we set as a marker of age we thought we’d never reach,

but we did, reached it early in our young adult lives

and well beyond, doubled it this year growing older,

swearing we never would, but knowing, too, always knowing,

that time moves us forward, away from youth into age,

and, our tassels moved from right to left, our lives commencing,

we moved on, followed our fates and fulfilled our destinies,

separated ourselves, by time and distance and the choices

we made, from a place called home,

settling in for the long haul;

but today, we got the news of a classmate dying,

passing on, someone we knew, maybe well, maybe not,

someone we can’t remember, or maybe we do, vaguely,

a face in our yearbook, but the loss, one person

less in our graduating class of people we grew up with,

shared memories of time and place and each other,

that loss reminds us of who we were, then, young and eager,

ready to take on the world, living forever, until now,

facing the mortality we failed to see or maybe

just avoided, prolonged, didn’t think about,

the memories come flooding back of what we had, then,

the old building we inhabited and swore we’d not return to,

the halls and aging classrooms, older now, like us,

and worn, though no worse for wear for bearing us through,

us either, no worse for wear, remembering today one of our own,

dying young, as young as we all are, full of life

and believing still, hoping even, we’ll live on forever,

despite the aches and pains of age, stiffer joints

and aching backs, the pills and unguents that keep us going,

and children, grandchildren of our own,

youth themselves setting their own marker of age

we are so far past, our lives beginning then, fearing nothing,

until now, mortality’s reminder in the death of a classmate.

Blue Jays Feeding

At my feeders, six blue jays, blue and black

and white, are battling for possession of the sunflower

seeds I provide for free but for their viewing,

and a picture or two, now and then,

their raucous calls and shrieking cries shrill

as they chase each other away to the tops

of the neighboring trees, concealing themselves

among the dark conifers and leafy oaks,

hidden shouting out their battle cries of victory, or defeat,

and the little birds, chickadees and finches of gold

and purple, a nuthatch or sparrow, patient, waiting,

move in at last and leisurely dine in the lull of blue jays

hoarding, claiming what is not theirs alone to claim,

and nearby, unconcerned, the hummingbirds drink their fill

and an eagle rests, perched and calling out,

echoing in the still air of morning.

The Garden

The garden, like me, is rather disheveled these days,

too many green things unkempt and growing wild,

as they will, a disarray of leaves and stalks,

a bud or two, gravid but unopened, waiting

for its own time to blossom and bloom,

and trampled some, the dog squirrel-chasing through

or a red ball tossed and errant; the weeds, too,

and perennials share together this my garden space,

a crumbling ring of rock encircled,

requiring little care, little concern, little

taking care of, as I like it, a busy patch

I’m too busy to bother with, or lazy,

just letting it grow, letting it go,

tending itself, and doing just fine without the fuss,

left alone and growing, growing in the summer months

before autumn’s slow return and the winter’s snow.

The Coffee Shop

The coffee goes down hot and bitter,

mellowed by milk, steamed and frothy,

the way good coffee is supposed to taste;

and it’s good just to sit here, unhurried, slowed,

and take in the world of the coffee shop,

the smell of today’s news on the table in front of me,

the frothy sound of steamed milk foaming,

echoing the chatter, the talk, the laughter of others,

like me, enjoying a few moments, an hour perhaps, 

a little time with friends, a good book, a pen and a blank sheet of paper,

a cup of coffee, hot and bitter, milk-mellowed,

the way good coffee is supposed to taste,

a little time away from the hurried life,

tucked inside where life is slowed,

unhurried, the coffee shop.