Secrets, Perhaps, We Cannot Share

She snapped her suitcase shut and slid

it back into the closet, way in the back,

out of the way, shutting away the remnants

of her vacation, the beach sand and bar napkins,

embossed in gold with the bars’ names, a lipstick kiss

where she dabbed a freshened shade of red,

a phone number hastily written that she never called,

tempted as she might have been, but that was last week,

the week before, and now it’s back to the 9 to 5

of her job and the life she had to return to, those

adult responsibilities fated us by age and growing up,

who we are, where we come from, time and place

and parentage, things we can’t escape, and the hidden things

we can’t admit to, secrets, perhaps, we cannot share,

things locked in a suitcase, latched and slidden back into the closet. 

Orion Returns

Early in this season of color and cold

and darkness descending too soon, too close

to the dinner hour, I await the return

of Orion’s constellation, the Hunter,

his belt of three stars – Alnitak, Alnilam,

and Mintaka – and his raised club

and shield, he one of the few heavenly

arts I recognize, easily found in the winter sky,

Orion,  the winter maker.  And now, around ten

on a clear night he steps onto the eastern horizon,

armed to begin his journey, earlier and earlier

in darkness, seeking me, perhaps, this heavenly

shepherd, cosmic dancer, swordsman of the sky,

my mythic companion, guardian on my journey,

this quest I take through the seasons of my life,

a journey begun to hell itself and returning home. 

Mid-October

Mid-October

and the reds and golds and yellows

have reached their peak,

perhaps passed it and

fallen now gently to earth

to rustle, crisp, beneath our feet,

me and the dogs out walking,

clearing our heads, an excuse just to breathe

deep the autumn air and feel our spirits

lifting, raising us up to its seasonal heights,

readying us, remembering, for the changes ahead. 

The Tin Man

The tin man is cold, stone cold,

he who recently chose happiness over a brain,

not heeding the wizard’s warning, hearts

not practical until they can be made unbreakable,

but he insisted, and as Dorothy clicked her heels

together, “there’s no place like home,” and vanished

in a swirl of glitter, he felt his warm heart break.

Within weeks, he was unable to bear it any longer,

and welcomed the Noon King’s turning him to stone,

cold hard stone, awaiting Dorothy’s return, loving her,

all of them, waiting, knowing she would come, all perhaps

but the tin man, hopeful, but doubtful, rejected in love,

heartbroken, forgetting that “a heart is not judged by how much

you love, but by how much you are loved by others,”

even as Dorothy fought her way back from Kansas through the tangle

of destruction Oz had become, risking it all for the love of a tin man,

a scarecrow straw-stuffed, and a cowardly lion wearing his medal,

a yellow brick road from Munchkin Land, and an Emerald kingdom. 

Nuthatch

Blue steel, black and gray,

white breasted, or red like

his cousin, scurrying up a tree

and, turning around, back down,

face-forward in search of what

lies hidden within, tapping lightly

with his pointed bill, hatching, or

seeking the seed inside my feeders,

oil rich sunflowers, black or hulled,

peanuts, storing it away, wedged

in bark, laying up for the lean

months of winter ahead.