The Cacophony of Rain

The cacophony of rain dripping from the roofs 
and eaves this spring evening come early:

an erratically rhythmic splashing in the puddles formed,

one drip dropping at a time, plink, here and there

and across the yard, tiny echoes gently answering;

soprano and alto voices, each in her turn, create

this melody for the changing of the seasons,

winter into spring announced in music, softly ringing.

Winter Up North: A Checklist

Outside, the skis and poles stand

by the door, tall skinny skis

propped up, ready at the trailhead

of my home, a quick escape;

the snowshoes, too, slipped on,

easily fastened, for the deep stuff,

knee deep, off through the woods,

a self-made trail blazed, away;

a snow shovel - or two - waits

as well, for snowfall, snow to move about,

transfer, with an expectation of old age’s

aches and pains of winter snow removed;

the sand bucket, next, weighted down, lidded,

rests there, its handle down, sand to melt

the ice just to freeze again, a little grip

for my slippery walkway, my slippery life;

and the snow blower, powerful, “for the big one,”

when the shovel isn’t enough, nor is my aging back,

this job a must do before the skis and snowshoes,

but an excuse still to be out in the snow on a winter day:

winter readiness, all lined up … Check!

Answered Prayer

Now I lay me down to sleep;

so begins their bedtime prayer,

kneeling, their hands folded tightly,

fingers interlaced, or lightly touching,

palm to palm,  heads bowed, eyes closed,

as they have been taught to pray; I pray

the Lord my soul to keep, though they know

nothing of souls harbored deep within them,

some aspect of life’s being, a spiritual concept

well beyond their youthful comprehensions.

But if I should die before I wake, death so distant

and foreign, an unknown least among the importance

of their young lives, Mom and Dad and a favored toy,

stuffed and furry, a comfort on a dark night,

I pray the Lord my soul to take, an innocent request,

expecting nothing taken while they sleep, not their souls

or family, the dog or cat, the goldfish swimming in a bowl,

anticipating instead a new day, a day at Grandma’s house,

snuggly blankets and warm cookies, juice in a cup.

But this is a prayer not shared by parents who fear

that soul be taken they just lay down to sleep, praying,

too, that soul to keep, bargaining, perhaps, pleading,

unwilling to let go themselves of this young soul,

their young prayer answered, innocent, my soul to take. 

The Drug Store

Appeased with a coupon for a free ice cream,
a reward from the dentist for a good check-up,
no cavities, or maybe for bravery, having that cavity
filled or the tooth pulled, a battle lost,
we filed into Hallet’s, the only drug store in town,
then. We wound our way through display cabinets,
various sundries stocked and shelved, and the glass-top 
display tables with the little round swing out seats
that served no purpose, best we could tell, 
than to amuse us as we ate our ice cream, 
home-made, Hallet’s-made, vanilla and chocolate, 
strawberry or coffee, while our mothers shopped, 
filled their prescriptions of little pills 
and potions, unguents we’d been warned never to touch,
or feared them as beneficial for our own good health.
The foul taste of medicine was reason enough not 
to feign sickness, feigning health instead, 
though unsuccessful at it, caught by mothers trained 
in childhood disease and ruse detection, a warm hand
pressed to our foreheads, a stroking of our hair,
the guilt trip laid upon us, or the medicine bottle
within easy reach, liquid poured into a spoon.

Time passes, as time does, the ice cream rewards
disappearing, reserved perhaps for younger children, 
and Hallet’s moved across the street, modernized, roomier, 
but the ice cream remained the same, home-made, Hallet’s-
made, vanilla and chocolate, strawberry or coffee, 
and the ice cream sodas and shakes, too, sundaes and banana 
splits, chocolate sauce or caramel, whipped cream, nuts, 
and a cherry, and I, at 17, was in charge, scooping 
and dishing, the creator of ice cream concoctions,
a little extra for my friends, and all that I could
eat in a four-hour shift on a slow night after school,
back before there were calories and my weight wasn’t
a concern, not an issue, youth before old age slowed
me down, changed my habits, changed my tastes, 
changed me. 

Hallet’s is gone now, time moving forward
towards its end, leaving behind memories to move us forward, 
a coupon to redeem, a free ice cream for a good checkup, 
no cavities, bravery for a pulled tooth,
or a hot fudge sundae, shared with a friend, holding hands.