In the quiet of a dark night

In the quiet of a dark night, moon-less,

still, the air muggy and moist, sweat

pooling in the crevices of my skin,

tossing, turning, awaiting the drowsiness

that passes for sleep on a night like this,

a loon, solitary and himself sleepless, calls out,

a long, lone mournful cry repeated, a lamentation,

or a prayer, perhaps, before the approaching storm

rends open the night sky, the crack of lightning

preceding the thunder and the rain to fall, falling

loud above me on the rooftop, the drowsiness

turning to sleep, the sleep to morning rising.

Every Yesterday

                                 -- A Poem for Mike --

My brother passed away yesterday,

just as he has every year, these past four years since,

while we watched, standing at his side and holding

each other, hopeful, willing him back to himself;

his last heart beats were the manual compressions

of a dutiful doctor true to his oath, his last

breaths forced into him until we said to stop, hope

lost, and he left us, leaving me here wondering

if that was the right answer to the question asked,

as I’ve wondered every year passing,

every yesterday, wondering still.

A Fairy Tale

 She knew what she wanted to be,

decided long ago in her Princess dress days,

satin and lace and silk and sneakers

twirling around the ballroom of her imagination

and the living room floor, just like the stories

her grandfather read to her, and hand in hand

they danced across the floor and back again; 

she knew then that she was to be a princess,

wed in a grand castle to a handsome Prince, golden

crowned in a royal ballroom, adored by him

and the little animals and birds of the kingdom,

and we danced and danced across the living room floor,

dancing our way to Happily Ever After.

A Slight Breeze

A slight breeze is blowing this early morning,

the sun barely up, a faint glow of orange, slowly

rising it seems, like me from my own bed, hazy headed

but awake, and I am greeted today by a silence broken

by my own noises scuffling about, making breakfast,

caffeine laden and strong, the clink of a spoon

against a favored mug, and by the slight breeze blowing,

the whisper of leaves stirring among the trees, and a lone

bird, up early, too, beginning his morning song. 

Weekdays

Weekdays here at the Lake, summertime,

before the weekenders arrive with their power boats

and jet skis and their little boats’ early morning puttering

to the head of the lake where the best fishing is purported to be,

and with their late-night revelries and conversations carried across

the water to those of us uninvited, very loud and very clear,

are peaceful, quiet for those of us who live here with our kayaks and canoes

hugging the shallow shorelines looking for moose and deer, listening

to the loons with their newly hatched chicks warning us away,

luring us from the nest and nursery, or maybe catching sight of the beaver

and otter and the eagle, his eagle eye watching us watching,

waiting for him to swoop low or soar above us, bobbing here

in the shade of an overhanging tree; evenings we gather at the fire pit,

wine in hand, dodging the smoke blown lightly into our faces,

our conversations low, like the sun setting, orange and pink in the darkening

blue of the night sky, a breeze stirring, carrying the bark of a neighbor’s dog,

or our own, and the echoes’ returning broken by a lone loon warbling, yodeling,

calling out, and reminding us of the peace of living here, surrounded

by that which we cannot understand, yet only truly appreciate

in the slowed later years of our lives, weekdays, here at the Lake.