Summer Shower

The rain marches down the lake

under a canopy of storm clouds,

gray darkening to black and veiling the sun,

shutting out its warmth where I sit,

content, this summer’s day, lulled to sleep

by the soft wash of waves at the water’s edge.

A heavy rain falls now upon my roof,

an a-rhythmic beat like tiny feet running for cover,

playful above me, and a light breeze enters,

lifts the curtains and shakes them out;

“just a passing shower, nothing more.”

And it does, it passes, this sudden squall moving

eastward toward town and beyond, as we’ve grown

to expect here at the lake. And so the sun returns

to a blue sky, as before, and warms me once again,

lulled to sleep by the soft wash of waves, content,

this summer’s day, just a summer shower passing.

Weather Forecast

The daily news today was dark,

like the darkness of a storm approaching,

ominous and threatening, as unstoppable

as it is unpredictable. So we run for cover,

ducking into an open entry way or a shop,

into our homes and pull tight the doors

and windows against the weather,

even as the storms lash around us,

the rumbling of thunder and the lightning

flashing, striking out, as we huddle together,

feeling secure, wrapped in ourselves and dry,

though fearful, powerless to do anything but hide.

It is as we’ve been taught, this fear,

to run inside and shield ourselves,

wait for it to pass – as it will –

convinced we are secure and safe;

for inside, it cannot hurt us.

A Return to Nature

My lawn mower is on vacation, I expect

basking in the sun with the other mowers,

garden tractors, and weed whackers

down at the repair shop where I took him

a couple weeks ago when he refused to work,

despite my coaxing, a pay raise even, and a curse

or two. With the rain we’ve had lately, the grass

is enjoying his absence, growing, as they say,

“like a weed.” I told my wife I was thinking

of letting the yard go back to its natural state,

to the meadow and forest that it was

before the ground was cleared and the cabin built,

hand hewn logs taken from the land where it sits.

Besides, I was getting used to the lushness of the grass

and enjoyed the wildflowers growing there, the paint-brushes,

yellow and orange, the buttercups and daisies, even

the dandelions turning to seed and blowing around,

wishes to come true and true love discovered, or not.

I suggested the new growth of trees sprouting up

would provide shade for us in the years to come,

if we lived long enough, or for the generations ahead;

I even calculated the money we’d save without

the weekly mowing, the yearly maintenance, and pointed out

the wildlife that would visit our yard, entertaining us.

But she prefers a well-cut lawn, smartly trimmed,

the smell of new-mown grass, her favorite summer scent,

and her look said it all; a quick call to Brad

with a promise of our mower’s return in a couple days

and a fresh tank of gas awaiting its return,

I prepared myself for the task ahead,

that weekly mowing of the lawn under a hot summer sun,

the sweat dripping down my face and back, the itch

of grass clipping plastered to my legs, and I envied

my lawn mower, gone these two weeks, basking in the sun

among the other mowers, garden tractors, and weed whackers,

old friends, not working, out of gas, and, perhaps, retired.

A Secret Carried

Born in 1909, she had two goals in life,

to live to be 100 years old, and to make

every one’s life as miserable as her own

with her demands and badgering, her complaints

and expectations no one could ever achieve,

not even Walter married just 20 years

before his escape to the end of a fishing pole

and alcohol cost him his life falling overboard

to drown on Hebron’s shore, the lucky man.

And when she turned 100 and prepared herself

to die, she continued on, though she had met this goal,

a box to check off checked off, but hanging on, still.

We joked that God and the Devil argued over her,

too good for one, not good enough for the other,

or knowing her second goal, neither wanting her

demands and badgering, her expectations even they

could not meet beyond Heaven’s Gates or Hell’s Domain:

the Pearly Gates were not clean enough for her,

and Hell, too much ash and dust, too hot.

Or perhaps, she was afraid of dying as we all are

when the death bell tolls – it tolls for thee –

and our souls aren’t ready to face the judgement seat,

some unconfessed sin, some guilt we harbor, some secret

so deep we judge ourselves and find ourselves

lacking, hell bound, an eternity of damnation, fire

and brimstone; this was her fear, for we discovered her secret

come to light when she finally succumbed to life’s ending,

slipping the bonds that held her here to face her judgement,

the eternalness beyond the grave, that great unknown

the poets and the pastors have tried to figure out,

ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and what comes next?

Heaven or Hell?  Nothing or something else,

more fearful, more blessed, eternal?

And that secret she carried, afraid

of its judgment, afraid even of death itself,

was a child unborn, aborted, taken from her womb,

a crime then, a shame, too, and a sin,

of love’s pleasures unwed and of a life

taken, a life ended, one sin to cover

another and the guilt, covered up, born

alone these long years, decades,

a secret hidden. Maybe she’d hoped

that by 100 years, it would be forgiven, be

forgotten, her death then welcomed, old age’s reward.

But it was not, for she could not forget, could not

forgive, not her, not God, not the Devil himself

with whom perhaps she’d bargained, and her judgement

awaited, her judgment on herself, an eternity

she could not change, nor could she face.

And carried thus, this secret, all these years,

her tortured life, punishing herself,

she died alone, a centenarian in a nursing home

uncomforted for the secret she carried

and the child she couldn’t love,

an expectation she could not achieve.