October 2017
While my three children were young, I wrote just enough poetry to give me an inkling that I might have an aptitude for it, but I wasn’t brave enough to throw my earning potential aside until my family was grown and I’d worked for a number of years. As time went on, I came to regret not having devoted myself to writing much earlier in life. The “now or never” decision came about 20 years ago—my late-in-life career—and the process of creating a poem still gives me enormous satisfaction. I’m gratified that my poetry is widely published in the small press and equally gratified by becoming part of a larger community of writers. For my publishing credits:
lindamfischer.com
lindamfischer.com
Raccoon Afternoons
We sit outside under a parasol
of spruce and clouds that garnish
the bluest of blue skies
like dollops of crème fraîche
or boules de neige arrayed
in a patisserie window, almost
within reach—a perfect afternoon.
It is neither summer nor autumn:
plumes of goldenrod and sumac
play out the season’s intermezzo,
a duet of color for an audience
of two, or so I assume. Only then
do I see the raccoon, carefully
and slowly making its way up
the tree beside us, unconcerned
with more than placing one foot
above the other in an orderly
ascent to a crotch of white
pine. It stops to have a good
look, crouched now, face
thrust between a vee of bark—
all pointy-nosed and goo-goo-eyed—
curious to know if we mean
anything beyond polite inquiry,
and decides not. Unfazed
and unhurried, it steps down
the length of a limb, intent
on going about its business, leaving us
to consider the destination of raccoons
and the disposition of our afternoons.
--first published in Ibbetson Street
Raccoon Afternoons
We sit outside under a parasol
of spruce and clouds that garnish
the bluest of blue skies
like dollops of crème fraîche
or boules de neige arrayed
in a patisserie window, almost
within reach—a perfect afternoon.
It is neither summer nor autumn:
plumes of goldenrod and sumac
play out the season’s intermezzo,
a duet of color for an audience
of two, or so I assume. Only then
do I see the raccoon, carefully
and slowly making its way up
the tree beside us, unconcerned
with more than placing one foot
above the other in an orderly
ascent to a crotch of white
pine. It stops to have a good
look, crouched now, face
thrust between a vee of bark—
all pointy-nosed and goo-goo-eyed—
curious to know if we mean
anything beyond polite inquiry,
and decides not. Unfazed
and unhurried, it steps down
the length of a limb, intent
on going about its business, leaving us
to consider the destination of raccoons
and the disposition of our afternoons.
--first published in Ibbetson Street
© 2017 Linda M. Fischer
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -FF