Happy New Year, 2024

The Winter Solstice began with a full moon,

bright, to light our way into the new year

and carry us through the darkness of our lives.

A Christmas Narrative (2023)

Was thinking about my grandparents the other day, Grammy and Grampy Wing, and the farm where they lived, though it wasn’t really a farm as we think of farms, with cows and horses, chickens and other fowl, not that I can remember it that way; perhaps before my time. My grandfather always had a pig, though, I remember that, a new one every year, and we visiting grandchildren thought it great fun to help him slop the hog, fatten him up for spring time butchering, ham for Easter, carrying the bucket of slop and dumping it into the trough, watching the pig stick his face in and slurp it up, his little piggy tail wagging like a dog. And I remember the apple trees, the farm house attic of strange and wonderful things, old books and magazines, old clothes in an old trunk, and the old truck we “drove” out in back of the garage, Gramp’s domain, a workshop of old tools well-cared for amid the dirt and grease and grime.

But this time of year, winter approaching quickly, I specifically remember Christmases at the farm, something special, a family affair, Gram and Gramp and their kids, all six of them and their spouses, my aunts and uncles, and the hordes of cousins, fifteen of us. Christmas afternoon, we’d pile into the family cars, “over the river and through the woods” for dinner and the big family Christmas tree, a real tree, back then, as was the custom, a scraggly evergreen my grandfather had cut down, no Christmas Tree farm for him, but his own land, and placed it in the picture window facing the field across the street and the river beyond, a white Christmas. Gram had decked it out in glass ornaments, “breakables,” and the homemade ones the grandchildren had made over the years, perhaps some traditional ones from her own early Christmases, and tinsel, lots of tinsel, for what is a Christmas tree without tinsel to reflect the lights strung around the tree, those big multicolored lights bulbs so hard to find these days, a Christmas tree much more sparse than is fashionable today.

Gram would meet each family at the back door – no one used the front door, not even at Christmas – and gave us each a big hug and a hearty Merry Christmas and helped us off with our coats and hats and mittens and winter boots, squirming children, for though it was a big range of ages, there were always littles ones needing that extra help in the excitement, lest we track snow through the kitchen as we dashed into the house and into the living room, our arms flapping about, mittens attached to our coat sleeves waving as well. Gram and the aunts knew how to safely herd us all, coats and mittens removed, safely stowed away, now set free among the cousins.

The house had been transformed overnight, for now there were twenty-nine people in the old farm house, small rooms shared by family. The dining room was rarely used – I don’t remember ever eating a meal in there – but today, Christmas, the dining room table was pulled out and stretched out into the living room, where a second table had been placed, a long table, and beyond that, stretched to the far wall, a third table, the Children’s Table, a place of honor for the little ones, separated from the grown-ups, adults, aunts and uncles, parents to us all, our places set with paper plates and paper cups and plastic forks and spoons, our own settings, sparing for the adults, the good China and glassware, the special forks and spoons and knives reserved for special occasions, like Christmas and the family all together. And beside each place, the little servings of butter mints and nuts in a cupcake paper, meant for nibbling, but gone well before dinner even started. We all knew this was our end of the table, our designated seating, safely tucked away from the adults and their adult conversations and the shushing we would have to endure if we sat up there. The aunts made their frequent trips to the children’s table, serving us first and keeping our plates full, turkey and gravy, potatoes, white and orange, and peas and beans, and all the fruit punch we wanted, warned, of course, not to spill anything or get our clothes dirty, though I don’t think Gram cared about any of that. We were the grandkids, her children’s children, much loved, dirty faces and hands and a spot of gravy on a clean shirt and all. And for dessert, pies – apple and blueberry and mincemeat - and cakes – white and yellow and chocolate, cut into thick slices – and cookies, the favored cookie Gram’s molasses cookies, lightly dusted with sugar, always, year-round, available in the cookie tin on the kitchen sideboard. No need to ask; we knew where they were and how many we could have, plus seconds. But today, Christmas Day, they were openly served and within our reach, and nobody was counting! Well, maybe they were, but not the cousins.

 Perhaps we all dreamed of someday moving up to the adult table, taking our rightful place as an adult (of sorts), sharing in adult conversations, listening to what was once forbidden us to hear, being seen not as “kid,” but as a young adult, worthy of moving from the Children’s Table,  and I’m sure the older cousins, as they got old enough, moved up there, but I’m thinking this young man never achieved that, content to stay safely ensconced with the kids, my cousins and I at the Kids’ Table, but, … I could be wrong, for these family Christmases were so long ago, long enough ago that I can’t remember when – or why – they might have stopped, now but a memory relived at Christmas time, wondering about the change, where it all went in the passage of time, in the getting older, cousins now adults ourselves, kids of our own, grandkids.

And after dinner, the Tree! We’d all already scoped out the tree, glanced through the myriad of packages placed under the tree, perhaps seen our name, most likely not, though, not in the earlier, pre-school days of our lives, but we never doubted a package or two was there. And we tried to be on our best behavior, knowing we had no choice but to wait until the tables were cleared and dishes done and the chairs rearranged to accommodate everyone, all twenty-nine people and any stragglers who might have arrived with Christmas Greetings. And we knew, too, the comfy chair, over-stuffed, over by the piano, was already spoken for, for it was Gram’s chair, the chair with the best view of family gathered, all together at the farm in North Bath for Christmas.

I can’t seem to remember who distributed gifts, someone who could read tags, I expect, gifts for the cousins and the aunts and uncles and my grandparents, paper strewn around the room, and strict orders from my mother to save the tags so she’d know who had given what to whom, which, of course, didn’t always happen, and I expect we never read tags, just knew it was ours to open and we tore into the packages, shouts of joy and “look what I got,” books and knitted socks and mittens, plastic models and games, baby dolls and Barbie dolls, fifteen cousins enjoying the afternoon’s gift exchange at the farm.

This was a well-ordered gift exchange, not that we young cousins thought about that. The process, I think, was that family names had been drawn the Christmas before (or sometime after maybe), so that everyone received a present. I’m not sure if individual names were drawn, or if the adult sibling names were drawn and each family bought for the family drawn. Looking back, there was an unfairness in that, for you see, my father had, at that time, 4, then 5 kids, the largest family in the brood. Woe to the family that drew Burt! And the numbers went down from there: Cleon with three; Arthur, Calvin, and Claire with two each; and Marilynn with one, she perhaps the coveted name to be drawn, the Golden Ticket of Christmas gift exchange. How it was arranged was no big family secret, but as younger cousins, we never knew, never cared to ask, for the “how” didn’t matter. It just happened, and that was enough. Nobody went home empty handed, just tired and full and happy to have spent the day at the farm, a Christmas tradition spent with family, spent with cousins, making memories.

At the end of the day, the cars loaded with new gifts and clean dishes and leftovers, and the living room cleaned of strewn wrapping paper, bows, and tags, we said our good-byes to each other, cousins and aunts and uncles, and to Gram who hugged us each again, wished us again a Merry Christmas, and thanked us for coming, for a good day, for it was Gram that held the family together; today was her day, all she really wanted for Christmas, us together, safe and loved, she who knew of separation and loss, family and love.

I don’t know when those Wing family Christmases ended, or why – kids getting older, losing some, a hard loss, taken too young, divorces and moving away, demons fought, the demands of life, the family dynamics of any family in America. And perhaps it doesn’t matter, the why, just that we hold on to these memories we brought with us into our own lives, our own families, we cousins, and the new traditions we’ve started. Just a memory, memories made, perhaps forgotten, memories shared, reignited, memories, the things that life is made of, Christmases of long, long ago still in our minds: Grammy and Grampy Wing; Arthur and Doris, Billy and Sharon; Cleon and Pauline, Bobby and Ronnie and Leeann, and Millie; Calvin and Marilynn, Jimmy and Jeff; Burt and Eleanor, Linda and Mike and Ricky, Suzy, and Ruth; Marilynn and Chet, Pam; and Claire and Roy, Sandy and John, converging on the farm in North Bath, Varney’s Mill Road, Christmas at the farm, memories resurrected of a time long ago, when we were young, much younger than today, memories made to carry us safely through the passing years of our own lives, watching the years go by and remembering. 

Sugar and Spice and All Things Nice

And she who is sugar and

spice, all things nice, holds

the seeds of a strong woman,

powerful, determinedly discerning,

self-aware, taking on a man’s world

easily lured away, deceiving himself

by his sighs and leers and crocodile tears,

fool that he is, unsuspecting and unaware.

Snips and Snails and Puppy Dogs' Tails

He who has the heart

            of a little boy

shall stay young forever,

            full of mischief,

even as his back is bent,

            his eyes clouded over.

Winter's Beginning

The perky brunette in the red dress on TV showing me the weather

patterns of today and the days to come, the rainfall and the snowfall

and the hours of sunlight dwindling, would tell me it’s not winter,

that winter begins December 1^st, ending precisely 3 months later,

this exactness needed for following trends and comparisons, statistics; 

but the calendar on my desk and the Pagan buried deep within us,

early man’s observations of the skies and the shortening of the days,

say winter starts on December 21^st, the Winter Solstice, that shortest day

of the year, 9 hours shorter than the longest day in June, confirmed

by science and the tilting of earth, the sun standing still above the Tropic

of Capricorn, the Magic Moment, the alignment of earth and sun;

even the Old Farmers’ Almanac claims winter’s beginning as December 21^st,

and who are we to argue with the old farmers, those who watch the sky

and the weather and who know these things, nature’s ways, traditions, folk lore;

but for us in the northern clime, winter arrived mid-November with the first snow,

enough snow to require snow plows and shovels and winter boots

and mittens and hats, scarves wrapped around our faces and the ear-flaps

pulled down on our mad bomber hats, shutting out the cold of approaching winter,

cold creeping in in the weeks before Mother Nature declares, “now it is winter,”

and we wake up to snow lightly falling, large flakes ganging up on us

to cover the ground and the rooftops and the car, “measurable snow,”

and we trudge out, boots and hats and mittens, and begin the task

of moving snow around, from here to there, and back again, and the cold

bites our noses and fingers and toes and our complaining begins;

yes, we are the complainers.

But despite the brunette and the calendar and the winter solstice, science even,

the old farmers, despite the arguments, the debates, and the discussions,

winter has arrived with the first snow, and we start counting the days,

 awaiting summer’s return. 

After the Storm

Age is but a state of mind,

            they tell us; tell that to my back,

tightly pulled, a sharp pain rising,

            an ache at shoveling’s end I can’t ignore.

A Confession

If I were a Catholic, a good one,

I’d probably stumble up the steps into a church

all Pius, and make my way forward to the confessional,

the priest hidden behind a door unseen, “Bless me, Father,

for I have sinned,” nobody the wiser for this act of contrition;

sin absolved. But I’m not a Catholic, good or otherwise,

brought up in a Baptist church where our sins were publicly

confessed to much weeping and wailing, a chorus of the righteous

“amening” and “praise be to Jesus-ing” us forward, youthful sinners,

our guilt thus discovered, public confession the only penance asked

for our transgressions, yet welcomed back into the fold, we awaited,

still, the wrath of God to strike us down, a sickness upon us,

a loss of something valuable, that new baseball glove I wanted

sold before I could buy it, fearing the worst of punishments ahead,

even safely enfolded by our confession seriously made.

So now I must confess, here in print, eternal words, for posterity,

the sin I’ve harbored these long years, a sin secreted away

since I was 10, a sin stashed among the other sins unconfessed,

the lies told, the unkind thoughts and words yelled, safely,

across the playground to the bullies who made me cry, public

humiliation by tears shed in fear and shame, perhaps a curse word

or two, maybe even my unconfessed greed and envy, and the immoral

thoughts of a curious teen approaching manhood and confused,

the stashed magazines, or the stolen comic book taken on a dare.

But at 10, as was the custom in our Baptist Church, the age of change

and transition, we confessed our sins and accepted God and Jesus

and the Holy Ghost and prepared ourselves to be baptized, taking

the plunge and washing ourselves clean of our sins, our evil

and wicked lives replaced by the Holy Spirit, a big change ahead,

a change, at 10, I had a hard time understanding, this sin and a Holy Ghost,

having been told of the evil of ghostly appearances, this symbolic gesture, despite

my awards and pins for Sunday School attendance, volumes of memorized Bible verses,

mission trips out into our little town, for this was what Jesus expected of us;

it wasn’t the godless of Africa, but I was only 10, and trying hard to be a good kid.

So I took the classes to make sure I was ready and understood the seriousness

of baptism, the act and the symbolism, the expectation and the change, Pastor

Wakeman faithful to his calling, a greater sin to take this too lightly, this open

confession of our sins and receiving the blessing of the Holy Spirit like a dove

descending, a light shining down upon me from Heaven, the Heavenly chorus

of angels singing, rejoicing in my decision, my return to the fold into the open

arms of God, so on a Sunday evening in a long white gown I stepped publicly

into the baptismal tank, said I did and I would, and was quickly pushed backwards

into the water, before, perhaps, I could change my mind, and was raised up,

sputtering and wet;

                                 but I felt nothing, no different than before, no beam of light

streaming, no Dove descending, sitting on my shoulder like I’d seen in all the pictures.

I felt nothing, wondering if I dared confess this, too, the only Baptist kid baptized

and feeling nothing, perhaps unaccepted by the heavens, the angels in shock –

it’s not easy when you’re 10 and the expectation wasn’t met. But I acted Holy

enough and let what I felt lie there with the rest of the unconfessed, unforgiven sins.

I was 10, and this is my confession, seriously made, penance perhaps long since paid. 

The ravages of war

are always the same, regardless

of which uniform you wore,

theirs or your own, two opposing

causes, clashing; both are right;

both are wrong. And the heroes

come home, older, different, distant

from the young men and boys

who went off to do battle,

willingly, or not, just

forever changed, scarred

by the ravages of war,

always the same,

regardless …

In the darkness of summer's brief nightfall

the deer have nibbled off the buds and flowers

of my garden, leaving behind pointed stalks,

naked and unbothered in the morning sunshine.

Old Scratch

They say, here in New England, the devil, Old Scratch himself,

still roams these ancient woods, old growth, deep and dark,

on his cloven hooves, his bearded ram’s head searching,

horns reaching skyward, and his broad axe hefted, hewing

the trees he seeks, the ones on which a name is carved,

a deal signed long ago, signed in blood and bark, the debt of a soul

due now, deals for rich rewards made in our desperation,

a low point, when life was dragging us much too soon to the grave,

a tree now fallen and a soul redeemed and gone to hell’s burning fires;

And the witches, too, moonlit in a forest clearing, dancing, chanting,

preying upon the village, wild women, Salem’s Sisters,

their coven music, the songs that lure our children to them, are carried

among the trees and into our ears, airy, barely audible, but clearly heard.

Their now-collected herbs and concoctions are left to brew in a cauldron

black with age, an elixir, a potion, a poison, eye of newt, toe

of a toad, a fiery dragon’s breath to hatch the evil contained within,

a spell to suck out the very breaths of the children drawing

to themselves an immortality of youth and beauty, time and magic;

And the skeletons rise from their graves this one night, soul-less,

a hallowed eve of fear and fright, graves that cannot hold them in, torn

asunder, their shrieks and screams raised, too, piercing the night air

suddenly turned colder, and we wrap our arms around us; shrieks and screams

that rattle our window panes and the sashes we’ve pulled tight, rattling

us, too, lying here trembling, their deep moans grieving their troubled

pasts, the evil they dealt in, the deals they made, deals called-in in the felling

of a tree deep in the ancient woods, their names carved into its trunk,

Old Scratch come back to reclaim another soul, a debt repaid.

 

And a single pumpkin, lit from within, grinning, watches and waits.

 

So on a windy night in autumn, the storms dark and fierce,

we listen for the falling of a tree, a crash of thunder, flash

of lightening, a resounding thud that startles us awake,

catches us up short, and we question, deep in our souls, does this tree

fall for us, payment of a debt made long ago in our youth, unbelieving

and fearing nothing, wild and ambitious and cocky, brash and unafraid;

but old age makes us remember being young, wondering if perhaps those

Puritan ancestors really did know that truth about the devil and warned us,

though, we didn’t heed their words in our search for wealth and fame, riches

beyond belief, bought at a price, paid for with our souls, now summoned

at the felling of a tree, Old Scratch much alive in New England’s ancient woods. 

Emoji

You get seven options,

but unless you need to laugh or cry

or send us love, sympathy, anger

or shock, choose this one,

a thumbs up, the one that says,

Thanks for sharing;

Thanks for being my friend.

Neverland

Second star to the right and straight on to morning,

a secret place of lost boys and other dreamers, grand adventures, and

stories, that’s where you’ll find me most days, perched

in a tree, attentive, ready to leap down and take flight,

just a sprinkling of pixie dust to set me free, Peter’s home,

where dreams are born, and time is never planned; and should

you look for me, it’s not on any chart, no X to mark the spot;

you must find it with your heart, in the imagination, returning

again to childhood delight and wonder, a scary world, perhaps,

just keep an open mind, and remember - you have been warned –

once you find your way there, you can never, never grow old,

stuck forever in a childish world of dreams and fantasy, faith

and trust, pixie dust, a treasure if you stay there, more precious than gold;

just think of lovely things and your heart will fly on wing,

for that, my friend, is where you’ll find me, Neverland,

second star to the right and straight on to morning.

The Elders

And the Elders gathered together

at the altar of the golden arches

at society’s edge to solve the world’s ills

and ailments over a cup of coffee

and, perhaps, an egg McMuffin;

or maybe just to remember the good

old days of youth and growing older,

now that we can laugh at ourselves,

what we were, and what we have become.

The Sounds of Autumn Turnings

-- a lone loon hooting, short and sharp,

or two, young ones lingering here,

long wails echoing back, “I

am still here … Me, too”

-- a soft wind, cool, blowing off the lake,

a gentle shaking of tree tops, swaying,

pushing back the clouds, the rattle of leaves

holding on, “one more day, one more day.”

-- and the skittering of dry leaves, too,

so soon gone, blown across the yard, scraping

the walkway, a clatter and rustle below

my feet, setting free summer, summer letting go.

-- the caress of leaves fallen, a rhythmic

raking, pulling leaves and grass clippings

forward to pile, an obligation, a chore, but

“is it necessary,” hastening change?

-- and a new sound of summer silence, gone

the engines’ roar, the screams of youth returned

to school, the added traffic of summer guests,

gone themselves, silence left behind in their leaving.

-- and the beating of our hearts, soft, settling in,

the rhythms of our lives changing, one season

to another, reflections on the water’s expanse

the reflections of our souls growing older,

wiser, too, becoming more than ourselves,

our own sound loud in the autumn of our lives,

holding on, “one more day, one more season.”

Rain is but the tears

Earth sheds for man’s reckless destruction

of earth and sky and water below, and humanity;

and the torrential winds, unleashed, wild,

carry aloft the cries of nature’s creation,

lamentations, grief, and suffering, falling

unheard on deaf ears claiming dominion. 

The World That Day Stopped

The ash fell from the sky, a thick, dark

cloud of death and destruction raining

from the towers of high finance

and power, a symbol, bred perhaps

of arrogance and decadence, a dark cloud

covering us as we fled, our ashen shrouds

an imposed sackcloth, facing our own ends,

seeking a savior, and our loud cries unheard

above the din of falling ash;

 

- and the world that day stopped -

 

replaced with fear and hatred,

a fear and hatred of those unlike us

in color and creed, beliefs and governance,

those responsible for this, those to blame,

those who looked like them, spoke

like them, worshipped like them, anyone

unlike us, kith and kin, neighbors and friends

who have shared our lives, difference reason

enough now for our hatred, enough now for our fear,

a fear that runs deep, and a mistrust now revealed,

born of that fear, a mistrust morphing onto anyone,

anything deemed different from me,

an imagined enemy threatening our being,

that which we love, that which we are.

 

And the cries of victory ring out

in a foreign country, ring out for a victory

over infidels brought down, crying out still today.

 

And we weep for what we’ve lost,

weep for what we’ve become,

afraid and alone, seeking a way home

through the ash that fell from the sky,

a dark cloud of death and destruction. 

Interruption

She never noticed me sitting behind her,

blushing as she turned to pass back

the papers the teacher handed out,

papers passed desk to desk

in columns, five across and six deep,

the way of middle school in those days.

Her name was Dotty, in the seventh grade,

and I wanted to love her as seventh graders do,

but talk to her? Impossible!

Impossible, even, a “Thank You” as I lingered,

our hands joined by papers passed back to me

before turning myself to pass the papers on

to the girl behind me, some nameless girl,

who took them from me, not lovingly

as I had taken them, not thankfully,

but with contempt as if I’d somehow

soiled them in the passing, she

who’d prefer to be sitting in my seat,

behind Dotty, her friend, best girlfriend,

and I to her just an interruption

between them, an interruption in love,

unnoticed by both, an interruption and nothing more. 

Monsters under the Bed

They are still there, even now, hiding

under my bed, after dark and the lights

are turned out, the room quiet save

for the steady tick of my clock, too quiet,

and, listening, because I know they are there,

I hear them waking, rustling about, their breathing

begun with a snort, a reminder they are here, still,

a low growl growing, a long crescendo, a silent scream.

They have followed me from childhood, survived

my teen years and the transition into adulthood,

marriage and children, countless jobs and moves

and that one last move into retirement, always here

under my bed, ready to grab my legs or arms reaching

under, pulling me into the darkness where they live,

abiding, an abode among the dust bunnies, the lost

shoes and shirts where I dare not look, and the bones

of those before me, less fortunate, thrusting themselves

below to look, to see for themselves who is there, to discover

the truth awaiting them, waiting there, patiently, now,

for me; those fears I’ve always had, always are, always

will be, for that is the nature of fear, those demons lurking

in the dark, under my bed, fear manifested, still there, still

waiting, and I am still afraid, still hearing them under my bed.

Goodnight, my old dark friends, come with me,

hand in hand, into tomorrow, into the daylight, less afraid. 

Dreamin'

Don’t be deceived,

            the solstice has passed

            and the days are cooler, shorter;

            a few leaves have changed and

            more fading on the limbs, tinged;

            and the kids are back to school,

            Friday football, and marching bands;

But it’s not Autumn yet, nor fall,

            plenty of hot days ahead

            and lawns to mow; the lake is

            still calling and fish to be caught;

            and the birds haven’t closed up

            the camp yet and packed to leave.

No, don’t be deceived;

            plenty of summer still remains,

                        dreamin’ as we do ‘bout this time,

                        labor day right around the corner. 

Solitude's Companion

I love my solitude, being alone

out on the lake, paddling the uninhabited

shores; or a long walk down a wooded trail,

confronting myself and the unknown around

me, the snap of a twig, somewhere, beyond,

within; even a journey’s drive to town, or further

still, watching the lines ahead go swiftly by

accompanied by the radio filling the space,

alone here and undisturbed. But, as has been said

about too much of a good thing, it can be painful,

solitude turning to loneliness, lacking the company

of another soul, someone, anyone, alone, too, perhaps,

needing companionship, intimacy, love, on this journey

we take, a journey begun in solitude to find ourselves in others. 

The Good Old Days

People long for the “good old days,”

those days when life seemed simpler,

and perhaps it was, locked in our own

little sphere of the good life, separated

from the bigger world around us, and

in our innocence and ignorance

so much better off than today’s fast world

of growing unease and political unrest,

that time we lived in then, believed in,

a simpler time with the good life promised,

only to find that today isn’t

what we expected, failing to fulfill

what we hoped it would become, a global

community saving itself, together, working

for its own good and the good of all humanity.

Have we forgotten Vietnam, dying for what cause,

and the protests, the marches, death in a foreign land

broadcast into our homes, the ravages of war,

fearing a draft that would send us there, or fleeing?

Have we forgotten Dr. King and civil rights,

and the violence that ensued, all men created

equal, but not, beaten down, a truth denied

because of race and color and creed?

Have we forgotten what it was like to be different,

not fitting in, an alternate morality, free love,

free to believe, Peace, Love, and Rock & Roll,

the sins of our lives excluding us, denying us?

Have we forgotten sit-ins, walk-outs, revolutions,

Power to the People, Folk Songs, protest songs,

the Summer of Love and Woodstock, the things

we fought for, the changes we worked toward,

the good times we knew were coming?

And we wonder, now, where it all went wrong,

clinging as we do to old ideas, old ideals,

unprepared for a future we could only

envision and not create; forgotten, too, are

those “good old days,” beyond us now, gone,

leaving us still ignorant and innocent, perhaps alone

and afraid, stuck in a time we fought so hard to leave behind,

a single point in time on the way to today. 

Seasons

We rise out of the slump of winter

at full speed, our flaps lowered,

and we take flight into summer,

rising high on a thermal current

of air, until we stall and fall again

into autumn and the winter’s cold and snow. 

Patience

There’s no one more patient

than a young boy out to catch

a fish in a net, eyes focused on

the target, slow steps barely

disturbing the water, ever so

carefully lowering his net;

and there is no elation greater

than a young boy raising his net

and broadcasting to us his fish

caught in an old fish net

retrieved from the shed. 

Here, at the Lake

there are no mythic creatures,

no unicorns or dragons, no enchanted

wisps to lead us away, no elves

or pixies, dwarves or giants, no trolls

or wizards, just the silence they left

behind when we outgrew them, our imaginations

turning rational, no place for fantasies,

the fantastical, the unreal, no manifestations

to explain what we couldn’t understand,

couldn’t accept; happens as we age, giving in,

as we do, to the realities of just plain living,

no longer a necessity to look beyond

ourselves to make sense of the world.

 

But on those quiet nights, dark and alone and pondering,

wondering about this life we’ve lived, this world inhabited,

and listening in the silence we’ve wrapped ourselves in,

we hear, perchance, their voices returning, calling us, and maybe,  

just maybe, we can see the faint outline of who they were,

who they are, hidden among the trees, rustling softly

through the gardens, the flowers quaking on a breeze-

less night, a flicker of light we try to rationalize away,

these voices singing a distant yet all too familiar melody.

 

And in our fears and angers, in life’s disappointments

and disasters, tired and wanting to give up, something stirs

within, something fantastical, irrational, throbbing in our very

being, our souls now illumined, something primevally real, a need

arising, unexplainable, except by childhood wonder, calling back

the wisps and pixies, trolls and dwarves, a unicorn prancing,

pawing, and a dragon, giant wings outstretched, flying low

over the lake, carrying us back to an ancient castle and a wizard

conjuring up magic and the creatures of old, their stories retold anew,

and we can start to believe again, start to believe in life as we imagined

it to be, a life found only in fantasy, in mythical creatures returning.

 

Today

Today,

the world waited,

perhaps watching us

so small here, sharing

this planet earth, and she

wondered, a voice heard

on the wind, what was

to become of us,

bent on destruction,

unable to sustain

our own selves here

in the midst of plenty,

taking and not giving back,

keeping to ourselves, repaying

nothing, our awareness come too late.

Nature always finds a way,

but, she ponders, in our waste

and want and unwillingness to care,

           unwillingness to act, will we? 

At Two

At two, she still fits in the kitchen sink, on one side of a double stainless steel whose function was dishes, not children. It’s not a large sink, by any means; she’s just small, small enough at two to still fit, just as she had a year ago at one, though a little snugger perhaps. Naked, she sits there in a couple of inches of cool water, smiling, laughing, the warm air of summer surrounding her, warm summer air blowing in the open door and out the open window.

And at two, her nakedness – pink, puffy skin, “baby fat” – is not an issue, not a problem for her as it might be for us, her parents, her grandparents, visitors passing through, for naked is how she came softly crying into our lives, and at two … well, clothes are just one more thing to bother with, one more thing to remember, things like new words and colors and shapes and numbers, things like saying “I’m sorry” and “please” and “thank you,” grown up things, “big girl” things.

But for now, “Kaycee, put on your clothes” doesn’t faze her, for clothed or naked, at two, what’s the difference? what’s it matter? What matters now, now more than then and more than later, is sitting here in the kitchen sink, the cool of stainless steel and a couple inches of water on a hot summer day.

            And that is the essence of childhood, of being two.