A beautiful day in February.
A few birds singing much too early.
A black SUV.
An awkward hello between
A girl and her father...
A phone call.
A surprise...
An absence of good news.
A problem.
A dismissal.
A tear drop-
A heart-tearing sob.
An unexpected fight on the way home to mom.
A car door slammed,
A front door key fumbled.
An avoided confrontation, also
An avoided consolation.
A soft noise bedside:
A scratch from
A cat come to investigate;
A simple, good soul.
A rub on a leg,
A pat on a furry head.
A purrrrrrrr.
A change of heart,
A fast ascension to a seated position.
A decision resulting in determination.


No more tears.
No coffee today.
No fights with the wrong side.
No wrecking ball of shame.
No tower of regret.
No birdcage of immaturity,
No, no more cages.

Before the fall rains come,
Let’s have one more picnic,
Now that the leaves are turning color
And the grass is still green in places.
   – by Charles Simic


A hot day brings the summer alcohol
Out of hiding.
Surrounded,
Each ice cube vanishes into my glass,
Like children running from the year’s last
class,
Mingling with the ***.
I relish laying
My hand on your naked chest
In the August sun,
Before the fall rains come.

Layered with a glaze of sweat
Neither yours nor mine but both,
My eyelids slide like honey
Over my quiet eyes,
Relaxing my thighs,
Daydreaming of earlier, when
You said to me
In the same tone as one with
Only a couple pages left in his comic,
“Let’s have one more picnic.”

Tomorrow, I’ll pack a basket
With some entertaining food:
Whipped cream, chocolate strawberries.
Under your tongue they’ll disappear
From here, here, and here.
(It’s duller
Without them.)
I’ll be excited looking around at
The land in a riot of multicolour,
Now that the leaves are turning colour.

But I’ll realize it isn’t you
Specifically;
Just that you were there, and I was there.
And we’ll realize we’re in love, however,
You or I could be whoever.
Gazing at each other, still with good graces
And moderate tolerance we’ll think,
“The sky is partially blue,
There are half-smiles on our faces,
And the grass is still green in places.”

It gets harder for me to be
Away from you, every day. This
Summer was the first I hadn’t
Come to visit, since first we
Met. I feel something’s amiss, you
Must too.  I think of the (I’m saddened),

Boats droning by on the lake at
Your door. We stayed still to watch.
I know you remember the last
Time, at night; we saw a bat;
It was too hard for us to catch;
You sat on rocks and I on grass

And we pretended that week would
Last all summer. Still, that Sunday
Came and I had to pack my things.
It rained, you cried, I misunderstood
Why I had to leave you. Blue jays
Lamented our parting with folded wings,

Helping both of us to subdue
Our sorrows. But you still smell,
Like a certain musty, expressive style,
And the only things I wanted to do
were run around you, raising hell,
And glance around for your smile

Shared with all who could begin
To catch it glinting from your eyes.
You never turn those windows away,
Shut your curtains only when
We leave your wooden feet and thighs,
Proudly formed foundations, on Sundays.

Do you, little child,
Fear your blank slate when nothing’s inspired, but you see a flag
Which paints itself on the face of
Someone else’s moon?

And do you, little child,
Know the pain of a thousand plain feathers pulling up and further
With nothing but hollow bones and
Grey sinew beneath?

And do you, little child,
Realise that the anguish of loss which comes with every edited word
Is bygones is bygones is bygones
Gone by?

And do you, little child,
Understand that a shoelace which appears at first to be two strings is actually
One road to the end overlapping again
And again?

And can you, little child,
Fear more than the dark day’s end, or the eight-leggedness of tarantulas,
And worry instead for the loss of your
Creativity?

Sighing deeply into Omi’s embrace
Like a thimble replaced in a sewing kit,
Her permanent warmth that can’t be erased.

A doily made of cream coloured lace,
Her set of values is tightly knit,
Sighing deeply into Omi’s embrace.

She makes extra stroganoff, just in case,
Then, whole-house clean-up, “Lickety-split!”
Her permanent warmth that can’t be erased.

My sister and I in a hiding place,
And nothing of our plums left but the pit.
Sighing deeply into Omi’s embrace.

The whole rainbow neatly interlaced,
In Omi’s garden, her butterflies flit,
Her permanent warmth that can’t be erased.

That pair of blue sweat pants we couldn’t replace
Because no other pair will ever quite fit.
Sighing deeply into Omi’s embrace,
Her permanent warmth that can’t be erased.