Sepia Leaves

The sepia leaves begin to

float down in early spring.

They held on all winter,

waiting to be pushed off by

new buds. This morning I

noticed the tree had been

absorbed into my yard’s summer green.

I never saw the last

leaves fall.

Full Moon

Driving

through the

dark, trying

to beat the

moon rise.

 

Old Photographs

From my grandparent’s photos. Unnamed women, Montgomery, Alabama. Early 1900s.

Faces in sepia photographs,

bring back the past.

Forgotten memories not

our own.

Thursday Morning

I arrange the blood pressure

machine on the table. Take my

arm from my shirt and wrap

the cuff around it.  Unstick and  restick the

velcro twice before it fits. A cup of tea.

A white bowl holds my banana and

clementine for when I’m done. Phone propped

up so I can see the time. Sit back and breath.

Look out the window. The squirrel hop, hop,

hops up the driveway,  sits up outside

the window, holding an old, black acorn.

Breath. Relax. The sun is out after days

of  rain. Five minutes yet? Breath. Relax.

I push the button. Squeeze, squeeze

squeeze. It squeezes my arm.  Exhale.

Done. It’s raining again.

Green

Holly green. Ivy green. Virginia Creeper

green. Nandina green. Pin Oak green.

Pecan green.  Maple green. Magnolia green. White

pine green. Rose of Sharon green.  Elaeagnus

green. Climbing Wisteria green. Crawling

poison ivy green. Bamboo green. Shady

green.  Sunny green. Soaking wet,

dripping green.

The Morning Drips

This morning drips green on my

roof.  Outside my window, a

red puddle where the brick

path ends. The purple flowers,

so dark  yesterday, closed up

tight.

Summer Nights

Those summer nights I

sat nursing the baby,

looking down on the

street light shining green

through the leaves.