3WW: Fragrant, Jostle, Remnant

Canteloupe sky
behind a palm tree

jostles my eyes
awake. The remnant

of last night's disappointment
shrinks as the sun

peeks from behind
the fronds. A new day

winks. My eyes fill
with possibilities,

again. The fragrance
of hope is a sunrise.

It's just too bright.
I close my eyes,

wait for you to wake up.
I become less and less.

Sunday Scribblings: The Rest of the Story

The Rest of the Story

The clock is ticking
seconds away
one after another.

I try to catch the clicks
but they dissipate
into the past

faster than my hands
can grab. I've been
up early waiting

for the sunrise
but my living room
remains gray.

I could be cooking
breakfast, making
something special

for my husband.
I could be starting
the laundry.

I could be updating
my blog. Instead,
I sit on the couch

in a rainstorm of lost
seconds...oh, wait,
I just snatched

a few and they turned
into words, like pearls
that I'm stringing

together, a necklace
of not-so-wasted time
on a sunless morning.

I fasten it around my neck.
I'll wear theses moments
all day. The clock ticks on.

3WW: Downhill, Freak, Sliver

Downhill, Freak, Sliver

I sleep later
now that I am
on the downhill
side of life.

Most mornings
I miss the sun
coloring with her
orange crayon.

I awake to watery
yellow and sigh,
but I don't freak
anymore about my age.

I'm letting retirement
carry me along
like a leaf
floating by

in our canal,
buoyant
in the swelling
tides.

I close my eyes,
feel the sun,
and enjoy this last
sliver of time.

Sunday Scribblings: Tribe

My Tribe

Kylie is in the guest room
with Danielle
playing a game,
their voices
like Christmas bells
ringing in my heart.

My husband and son
are sitting on the porch
talking about boats,
watching the water
in the canal
float by.

My daughter is not here
but back in NH
working,
making a safe
life for her
daughter

I'm in the kitchen
chopping onions,
red bell peppers,
and celery
for macaroni salad
humming a soft tune.

Sunday Scribblings: Life Is Good

Saturday

We kept breakfast simple:
pumpernickel toast
with peanut butter
for him
and a rice cake
with egg salad for me.

He puttered
on his boat
I changed the bed
and dusted.

We took a drive
to St. James City
for a light lunch:
beach bread for him
and creamy pumpkin
soup with cinnamon
swirl croutons for me.

He fished off the dock
and caught a few snappers
that he threw back.
I sat in the sun
reading two letters
from a friend
and The Daughter
of Smoke and Bone.

We had cocktails
and chips and dip
on the porch
of our stilt house,
the setting sun
turning everything golden.

I broiled rice cakes
covered with spaghetti sauce
and mozzarella
for supper.
We ate outdoors
watching fish
jump for their meal
in the canal.

I went for a walk
as the moon rose.
He went inside
to the TV.

We got into our bed
with its clean sheets
and drifted off
to Downy dreams.

3WW: Drank, Hitch, Muster

Hallway to Death

She drank a bottle
of vodka

after the doctor
refused

to give her any more
Percosets.

We found her
on the floor

with a broken
wrist.

At the hospital
she complained

of snakes invading
her room

and hitching themselves
to her underarms

and wrapping
around her chest.

There was a broken pipe
under her bed

flooding the room.
Every nurse

was eyeing her man
and he was chasing

all of them. Weeks
later the hallucinations

eased. She remembered
nothing. And even

a stint in rehab
wasn't enough for her

to muster the willpower
to live without pills

and alcohol. She
has lost weight.

Her skin looks healthier
now that she's not

all dehydrated. Her back
is feeling better.

She's eighty years old.
But her remaining years

seem like an empty
corridor she has to walk

down alone
if she has to be clean.

3WW: Figment, Inclined, Vulnerable

The sun is a figment
dissipated into memory.

Rusty trees are reflected
in the steel water.

Fog floats over the mountain
and blends into the gray sky.

I'm sitting in my son's living room
next to my in laws who are napping.

You might think this weather
makes me vulnerable to depression

but I am listening to soft snores
watching rain drip from the deck furniture.

My feet are inclined on the leather
La Z Boy and my fingers

are tapping away on my iPad
happy to be writing this poem.