Five Quatrains

                        1.

Rising early, I step outside

to bid fair winds to Orion

leaving soon the winter sky,

a journey we all must take.

                        2.

Spring snow is short-lived,

a cloud blown white and stark

against the blue sky on the horizon

where we long to fly into summer.

                        3.

Late at night my old transistor

picks up the static of a distant station

and I faintly hear a love song playing

from the past where we used to live.

                        4.

Across the lake, frozen still and cold,

smoke whispers from a far-off chimney,

a signal sent, “we are here and well,”

and our lives go on, mindful of our neighbors.

                        5.

An odyssey’s journey ends

when we come home again,

changed, but really, just the same

as when we left, only different.

Remember the Circus

Remember the circus when it came to town,

sitting in the big top when you were 10

– or whatever venue it was on that day –

stuffing yourself with cotton candy,

popcorn, a candied apple, washed down

by a syrupy drink or lemonade;

remember how much larger the elephants

were up close, how loud the roar of lions

and tigers, how glittering the saddles

of the ponies prancing around the ring,

the sharp crack of a whip directing them,

the clowns, even, less scary and how much braver you were,

then, caught in the glitz and glitter of the circus;

remember the adventure, eight cats in one cage

performing together, the brave trainer alone

with them, leaping and rolling and jumping

through a flaming hoop held high;

remember “death defying” feats of acrobatics

high above you, spotlighted, no net to catch them,

flying from person to person, tossed and caught,

or slowly stepping along a tight-rope stretched,

the gasps and the cheers of the crowd around you;

and remember discovering your life’s one goal,

there at the circus, and you rushed home at the end

of the show to string a swing to the nearest tree,

not too high, for safety, to assuage your fear of heights,

but high enough to keep you off the ground,

and the hours you spent hanging there, knees bent

to hold you, swinging back and forth and catching

the pretty girl in a sequined costume, a feathered

headdress, smiling and trusting you as she tumbled

into your outstretched hands amidst the “oohs”

and “ahs” of the crowd below, the applause as she

joined you there on the swing, waving, and with a kiss,

sending her back to another bar awaiting her, until one day,

tired of the game, a game you played alone, you missed her

and she plummeted to the ground to lie crumbled and broken,

her sequins dulled and fading, and you never performed

again, your circus long ended and gone to another town,

another 10-year-old’s dreaming; perhaps you were the child

who took my place, who caught the girl in the sequined

costume, a feathered headdress, smiling and trusting you

as she trusted me, flying into your outstretched hands;

for the show must go on, and we, too, moving on, will remember

childhood and the dreams we left behind, taking them

with us out in the real world that calls to us, going

as we must, but bound there by our dreams, crumbled

and broken, dulled and fading, dreams remembered from childhood.

Making Pancakes

I know what’s on the card, the right

ingredients, but still I pull it out

every Sunday when breakfast calls so I

don’t get confused by the amounts, different

from waffles, muffins, or a chocolate cake,

though any one would suffice on a Sunday morning.

I don’t sift, just dump everything into a bowl,

the dries in one, the eggs and oil and milk

in another, then mix it all together, stirring gently.

I make modifications as I go, more of this, less of that,

a little extra milk, only a third for a thinner batter,

more spread on a hot griddle, lighter, stackable,

those tiny bubbles forming and bursting - flipping time! -

and a touch more baking powder. I’ve since added nutmeg

to the recipe, not something my mother taught me,

but my own trial and error of cooking, nutmeg

a nice flavor, “warm, slightly nutty”; and

it’s good for me, for a healthy heart, for boosting

my moods, improving blood sugar control and

my libido, according to the rats who tasted it.

But it does, as everything does, come with a warning;

ingesting too much, more than is prudent, causes problems

for mice, and the taste buds, but the eighth of a teaspoon

I use falls well within the safe parameters of the FDA

and of modifying a mother’s recipe, handed down

from generations of mothers making pancakes

for Sunday morning, but without the benefits of nutmeg,

drowning them in maple syrup and melted butter oozing

over the sides, like now, stacked high on my plate

this Sunday morning, a health-conscious breakfast

washed down with coffee, orange juice, and a side of bacon.

The Way of Cats

He dragged himself under the porch

with the dirt and the dust and the spiders,

this tiny space, just as I’m doing now to pull him out.

I didn’t know he was there until,

looking for him, calling his name,

though he never answers, I heard that soft

meow he’s been making of late, like saying goodbye.

For cats know much more than people, handle it

it better than us, when it’s time to go, to cross

that rainbow bridge to an afterlife, whatever comes

next in the animal world, and not wanting

to trouble us, cats will crawl away into the dark

to be alone, to make their own peace

with the lives they’ve lived, and then leave

just as they arrived, taking us into their lives

and, in time, leaving us behind, filling the time in between

with balls of yarn and catnip mice, warm window seats

and low purrs rumbling up from deep inside,

head butts to show their love, finding us worthy.

Now I know …

So I covered him there under the porch with that towel

he claimed as his, the one that smelled of us, of him and me,

and lay down beside him in the dirt and the dust

among the spiders and detritus of the darkness,

softly petting his fur and quietly listening,

nothing more, letting the tears fall silently,

run freely down my cheeks, sobbing deeply,

until his purring faded and rumbled to a stop,

letting him go in the way of cats crossing over,

grieving in the way of men, alone in this new darkness

– perhaps, we aren’t so different after all, he and I,

preferring solitude when the words would fail us.