Sunday, June 24, 2018

tradition

A volley of pounding echoes overhead.
"The morning tradition," my husband says, smiling.
Upstairs, our landlord's wife is pounding roti dough into submission.
Later today leftover bits will be broken up and tossed on the lawn.
An entire flock of sparrows will drop from the sky, their chestnut heads bobbing joyously..
Blackbirds too.
And while sparrows squabble,  black birds will dart in an out like wind up toys gone mad.
It's a time worn tradition for them too.

Friday, June 8, 2018

welcome mat

I have just shown a spider the door. Given it 'the bums rush.' What a great expression. Not a very compassionate one but there you have it.
Against the stark white of dropped ceiling was a thug of a spider.
The biting kind.
I've been unpacking.
Lots of boxes and paper and clumping about.
It has caused a disturbance in the smaller kingdom I suppose.
Maybe the spider decided the neighborhood was going down hill.
Out he swaggered.
I grabbed the nearest thing to hand.
An antique canning jar and piece of paper.
I had to stretch and reach.
The spider did his own stretching and reaching.
Now he was on the jar lip.
Now he was on the outside of the jar.
Now he was on the paper.
Now our eyes were on lock and hold.
Now I was sprinting for the door.
Oh oh.
Both hands were full.
Empty jar in one hand and desperate spider gaining its bearings on the other.
He's outside now.
I dusted him off onto the welcome mat.

Friday, May 11, 2018

eternity

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school where children played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.

  by Emily Dickinson

Thursday, April 12, 2018

Thursday, April 5, 2018

Wednesday, February 14, 2018

no one minds

Coffee brewing.
Or cookies baking.
Or crisping bacon.
These are things no one minds smelling while stirring in bed, contemplating the day ahead.
But not......skunk.
My sister inhaled the cool morning air.
What?!
Did she really smell a skunk?
How baffling.
The furnace came on with a hum and "it was like a skunk was suddenly standing on the end of her bed!"
Back went the covers and up she sprang, following her nose.
She eventually peered out the front door into a frosty, February morning.
Her snow filled yard told the whole story.
A skunk had wandered along the side of her house.
There were its tracks.
The neighbors dog must have barked just as the skunk reached the corner right beside the cold air intake for the furnace.
Sherlock Holmes couldn't have solved the mystery faster.
Case closed.

peachy