I am standing at the edge of morning. A slender line of indigo runs parallel with the snaking Shawangunk Kill River here, illuminating the trees in the place where Water meets Land.
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I handed them to her in a see-through sleeve of cellophane, flourished with a slender satin bow. Even without abandoning the sash of purple or thin outer garment, one could plainly see their inner ruddiness and wild, unexpressed containment.
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We tore out the walls, replaced a window, added another, ripped up 5 layers of old flooring, and now it awaits its next fate. My kitchen, heart of the home, a mother’s canvas and all the rest. Wrote a poem in the wee hours in less than 8 minutes to pay homage to the moment…
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Red. Blood. What wends its way through the umbilicus, Long ago cut, but still pulsing.
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A couple walked into Nectar, mid-December, Nat King Cole singing The Christmas Song, lights twinkling around the window displays of fancifully wrapped gifts, tables and furniture overflowing with items from all over the world.
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He is grinning, tanned, shirtless, thrusting a can toward me. In his one infinitesimal chance to grab my attention, this man has chosen to share these details: his thick muscular body which he is not shy about and might consider a kind of calling card, he likes beer, he wears a baseball cap and reflective sunglasses to conceal his gaze and any hint of vulnerability or longing.
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In goes the cup of flour, not measured too carefully because there’s no need.
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