When we moved here
to the house where
the former owner
died in her bed
just short of 100,
there was a flag,
a wind catching
flag saying “Adams
Park.” No dead
dogs face. No chain
link fence.
Only the leaves wave now.
This poem was a response to one I received.
My oldest daughter dropped
by for tea. “Should
I make a pot?” my husband
asked. “Why not?” I said.
We often have tea with
daughters, but rarely from
the teapot. He picked a
hibiscus for the table. It
was a pop up tea party.
The 2 in my address
is peeling away
All through August
the postcards still
found me.
Last week a volunteer
Rose of Sharon Bloomed
by the curb. Celebration.
I remember the summer we
stayed with Nanny and Poppy.
We used to walk our mother around the
corner to the bus stop. On the way back we
stopped and picked up the hibiscus blossoms to
mix into our mud pies.
One terribly stormy afternoon our grandparents
made us sit on the couch, no lights, no television,
no radio. The lightening flashed through the lace
curtains. There was thunder, wind and pouring
rain. When our mother came home, jumping over
downed wires, we cried.
Evenings after dinner my sister and I sat around the
kitchen table with Poppy. We ate Ritz crackers with
grated cheese and played Sorry while
Poppy drank his nightly glass of buttermilk.
The cars pull away from
the house. I watch them
leave. The air is warm
and thick. The street
lights come on and I
walk down the brick
path. One last firefly
flickers in the gathering
dusk. Birthday celebration
over. Seventy years gone.
It’s hard to believe
the August Poetry
is almost over and
I still haven’t
received my card
from Bukouski.
So disappointing.
So unexpected.
Maybe next year.
I don’t remember my sister Pearl
in her blue organdy
Christmas dress.
Or my three year old self
twirling and swirling in the
parsonage backyard
Years later, when I thought of
moving to Idlewild, I saw
myself in my minds eye,
arms outstretched, head
thrown back, eyes closed, twirling.
the grass, the woods, the lake
swirling around me.
