Met for lunch with Jesus
at Alice’s Restaurant,
the one that’s on the beach in Malibu.
He drove up in a beater pickup truck,
wore a robe, white linen,
a rope around his waist,
sandals on his feet.
The hostess said the lunch crowd beat us to the booths;
We’d have to wait
to have a window with an ocean view.
Jesus said he didn’t mind.
He said he had the time.
The wrought iron treadle
rocked back and forth
her stocking creeping down,
rested on the top
while I held Mabel by one stuffed cotton arm.
The leather cable spun ‘round and ‘round the wheel.
Mabel’s blue embroidered eyes and mine
I thought the pulley must be a monkey’s arm, and
Mabel thought so too, I knew.
We didn’t know that Grandma’s knee
made the treadle rise and fall,
the needle rise and fall on
scraps of pale blue cotton flannel that
smelled fresh off the bolt and
flew beneath the presser foot.
I thought the stitches ate the cloth.
Mabel believed it too.
Round and round Grandma’s wrinkly hands
pushed the flannel.
The chomp stopped and
with a flick of her thumb
she raised the presser foot.
Grandma tugged the flannel out and
snapped long strings of thread with her front teeth.
She snipped and clipped out tiny triangles
then turned the fabric right side out
and showed us what she’d made for Mabel,
a soft nightgown with puffy sleeves and
smocking on the shoulders.
I undressed her right there in the room
in front of the cat and everything.
Mabel didn’t care.
I knew she wanted to wear that gown for always
and never put it in the wash
and never let that light blue fade
or lose that brand new smell.
My love and I round the first turn.
Our snowmobile engines whir, then stop.
Silence marks our ground.
Snow markers perch, a shimmer of diamond picket fence.
The river whispers over rocks.
Ice floes trip and weave.
Helmets off. Crystalline flakes fall on our heads.
Soft, a munch, munch from the river shore.
An elk, grand man, eight-point rack, reaches for tender shoots.
The Yellowstone loop takes all afternoon, over moguls, through bison breath frozen mid-air.
At Snow Lodge, we drag our packs on a sled, dine on trout and huckleberry pie.
Showered and windburned, we near sleep. More snow, lighter snow, falls and surrounds our haven like down.
We speak in whispers, reliving the day, that wondrous bull elk on the shore.
My husband, my mate, laughs and reminds, “Count on me, Mama, count on me. I never get skunked on that road.”
Here are a poem and photo from the archives. This is my way of saying thank you to all who have downloaded my ebooks. Please enjoy The Last Skywatchers and Sea Cliff 104, and please review. If you need help submitting a review on Smashwords, Barnes & Noble, iBooks, Kobo, or Amazon, contact me via my contact form and be in touch.
Before the summer frog song sounded once,
before the dry adobe settled on the wind,
the moon spread silver streaks
across a black, black sea.
The water swelled, ebbed and waned;
the tides claimed one frail shell
and rocked it, worked it
to the ocean floor.
Imbedded, it lay captured
till the mountains shook and burst
from underground; pounding water
churned the shell to grains
too small, too many to be named.
The sea floor, naked, baked and
cracked dry clay —
wind, wind, carried it away.
Hush now. Hear what summer song frogs say.
I loved you before these things occurred.