brbrbrbrbrbrThebrCatbrbr

A cat waits by my door.
brA visitor from the past,
brEscaped from the mixing pot
brOf watercolor memories.
brHe silently sits by the dish
brWhere pieces of my Mother’s garden
brCome to rest.

brbr

He stares unblinking,
brSeeing me as a child,
brRemembering me from decades ago.
brI had stroked him for luck,
brAnd played with him on sunshine days
brWhen we lived in the hour
brAnd the certainty of tomorrow.

brbr

I buried him by a catnip bush
brOn a crimson, autumn afternoon.
brA day when the wind
brPersuaded the white oaks
brTo let their golden leaves fly.
brWhen promises were made,
brThen forgotten in the aging season.

brbr

Only the cat survived,
brFinally working his way to the surface
brAmong remnants of the cardboard time capsule.
brHis green iris was reborn in the sunlight:
brA tiny crystal ball
brTelling me what he had learned
brIn my Mother’s garden.

brbr

 

brbr

ThebrSong

brbr

A lone bird,
brResting in the arms
brOf a tulip tree,
brSang.
brHis song carried
brAcross glazed fields
brAnd into the snowy wood.
brI stood
brAt a stone wall
brBetween forest and farm,
brAnd listened
brTo the simple notes
brAwaken
brA sleeping world.

brbr

 

brbr

Closingbrup the House

brbr

The walls were wrinkled,
brFilled with laugh lines
brAnd the stains of tears.
brCracks leaked plaster
brFrom a body worn.

brbr

It smelled of all of us,
brA scent of life lived.
brChildren and Christmas trees,
brOld magazines and dirty laundry,
brDeath and sex and dried flowers.

brbr

She sat on a pull-out bed,
brSurrounded by the litter of years,
brAge breaking the bargain
brThat keeps a house a home.
brA caretaker ready to be a care taker.

brbr

The dust of living
brScurried across well-traveled floors,
brUnnerved by strangers’ sudden movements.
brGathering in remote corners
brAs darkness settled in.

brbr

 

brbr

You can find Glenn’s collections of poetry and essaysbrat Gibson’s Bookstore in Concord, MainStreet BookEnds in Warner, or at hisbrwebsite: www.snapscreenpress.com.

brbr