Dance Lessons

Yes, I, too, took dancing lessons,

a pre-school carrot-top Gene Kelly

in a Donald Duck sailor suit

shuffle-stepping my way across a stage

into an early exit, stage right.

After that first year, that only year of lessons,

I was destined never to dance again, lacking skill

and talent and the confidence I was meant to gain

in Mrs. Weatherbee’s studio high above Front Street.

It was many years hence

before I donned my dancing shoes once more,

a sophomore boy and a freshman girl,

two long lines facing one another

at the Junior High gym, chaperoned,

shuffling my feet and waving my arms,

almost rhythmically, yet inexperienced,

that clumsy dance of the high school boy,

shy and self-conscious, but for her,

for Wendy, I would have danced the night away,

Fred and Ginger gracefully swaying our way into young love;

but young love ends, as young love does,

and it did in the years to follow,

the pain of parting still lingering in memory’s dark recesses,

but for that one night we danced

and danced and nothing else mattered but us.

We Gather Together

Despite his skill with an ailing engine,

his hands hardened, cracked and scarred,

my father’s real specialty was mashed potatoes.

Those golden spuds he would whip up white and fluffy,

mixed with the right amount of milk and butter

for a perfect texture, all whirled together between the tines

of an electric mixer, until they were soft

and smooth, not a lump to be found.

Everyone raved about them, and him, too,

at church suppers, placed there amid the casseroles,

baked beans and macaroni salads,

the meatloaves and sliced ham and turkey.

Perhaps he missed his calling in the culinary arts;

or maybe this was time to himself,

a few moments to reflect on life as the mixer

twirled and swirled the dry potatoes,

boiled soft now, and steaming, into a dish to share,

a fellowship of pot luck calling us all together,

a church social or his large family

settling down around a holiday table,

a gathering gathered together by his love and mashed potatoes.

Retirement Home

It isn’t much, this house,

small enough to retire to,

just a few rooms, multi-purposed,

the boundaries breached by the moment

and by the company we’re keeping:

a rotating crowd of family,

kids and grandkids, traipsing through,

dropping their towels and leaving the lake

behind in their footprints, the path well-worn

from door to door, front to back

and back again; and friends,

a warm fire in its place,

and warmed ourselves by a glass of wine

and good conversation, old friends remembering,

remembering old friends, still full of life

and expectations for the days ahead,

even as the sun sets, turning the room

to red and our memories to gold.

The Darkness of an August Night

A lone loon, mournful, calls

into the darkness of an August night,

distant and remote,

a sharp and shrill cry echoing

back from the head of the lake,

a crown of marsh and bog,

back to where we lay, listening,

alone in the darkness of our own lives,

crying out, calling into the night

and seeking our way through the seasons ahead.