THAT LAST SUMMER


We pushed off from the dock
in a canoe at dawn,
the sky blushing pink,
the lake water still as a pond,
no speedboats splashing by,
all the boat docks deserted
as vacationers were sleeping.

With every stroke of the paddle,
I noticed his strong muscles
and I knew I would miss
our tug of war trying to push
one another into the lake
in the evenings after supper.
 
The solitude was broken
when we laughed
as a muskrat swam by.
Then we glided
under the River Styx Bridge
to Byron’s Cove,
where some huge estates
showed no signs of life.
We guessed the owners
had found more exotic places.
 
But I was so content to be there
on the lake
with my best summer buddy
for our last summer together
that I photographed
the landscape in my mind.
If it had not been so beautiful,
I would’ve forgotten it by now.
 
Summer An Eclectic Anthology Silver Birch Press 2013
 


Homesick


I cross the miles holding
on to memories:
my children’s first steps,
their first days at school,
their romps in piles
of orange and gold leaves.
 
The neighborhood movie house,
where Rocky played
for six months,
was something I could rely on
when I looked up at the marquee.
 
The drugstore where my kids
brought their piggy banks,
the clerk counting out pennies
for them to buy me perfume.
 
Chatting with neighbors
over the backyard fence,
as we hung clothes on our lines.
Margaret always washed
on Mondays, shopped on Thursdays;
Vivian walked to the market at noon.
 
I arrive in the new land
of smog-filled haze
and star-like cacti-- 
I am on another planet.
 
I long to see the familiar landscape
of windswept leaves
resting against
the sagging redwood fence.

Why I Miss New Jersey Everhart Press 2013 
 


Last Sunday at Knottsberry Hotel


I attend Sons and Daughters of Italy
club luncheon,
although it’s been five years
since I’ve been a member.
Clusters of women
enter the ballroom,
looking vaguely familiar,
their hair whiter, many wrinkles
etched in their faces.
When the musician plays
lively music,
no one gets up to dance--
some because they’re widows
like me
with no dancing partners,
and some because
of walkers and canes.
There’s nothing sadder for me
than hearing good music
and seeing an empty dance floor.
When a member in her eighties
motions to me to join her to dance,
there’s no holding me back.
We’re the only ones on the floor.
We’re dancing today because
next year we may not be dancing.