a sunroom

 

 

off the side of the living room

     is colin's grandfather's sunroom

     a room of field stone and heavy planked floor

 

there colin's grandfather keeps his stock of whiskeys

     as a grower of grapes, as a vintner

     as a merchant

     he has an appreciation for the distilled grain

 

in this room, with windows facing south and west

     shadows follow the sun

     across shelves of amber bottles

 

it is a man's room, rumble and grumble

     stone and wood 

     ice on glass

 

     a chosen whiskey poured

 

 

 

~

 

 

 

lying in bed thinking about the day

      m & i walked to the top of the hill, spread our coats

      lay on our backs looking at the sky  

 

      it was what they call super-blue, like it was

      in new york city on september eleventh, a perfect day

 

we lay among a field of huge live oaks, their leaves golden

 

      the trees, the sky, the grass around us

      tall and dry, sending their fluffy seed heads

      into the ether on the breeze

 

      was all we could see 

 

we heard birds in the tangles of vines below 

      little birds, sparrows maybe

      

walking back to the house we picked up acorns

      back at the house we made apple pie

      with apples we bought earlier in the day

      at the farm stand down the road

     

there were races at the nascar track ten miles away

      we could hear the roar of engines as faint background noise to the day

 

 

 

~

 

 

 

when i was little i learned to associate whiskey

     it's color and presence

     and effects

     with my father

 

when i stand in colin's grandfather's sunroom 

     among the bottles 

     some with familiar labels

 

     i'm unsettled, reconciling this beautiful place

     and this beautiful man

     with the anger and cruelty of my father

 

     his whiskied breath

 

     my mother's passivity

 

 

 

~

 

 

 

tomorrow we are going to have breakfast in sonoma

     our favorite restaurant 

     is called the girl & the fig

 

then it's back to the city, and back to work

 

 

 

~

 

 

 

someday i want us to have a house with a sunroom

     though it seems 

     we'll never save enough for a house    

 

it's okay, i think we will always have this home away from home

     though, always is a long time

 

imagining this place without colin's grandfather

     is almost unbearable

   

marketa tells me not to do this, not to worry about what might be

     or what's to come

     or what is beyond control

 

 

 

~

 

 

 

i don't want to close my eyes

     i don't want this day to end

 

 

~

 

 

three o'clock ante meridian on the patio

     wind through leaves and the rows of vines

     makes a lovely sound

     is soft on my face

 

 even with the moon near full and brilliant

     low on the western horizon

     through tree-tops

     i see stars

 

     in the city i forget their existence

     i think i see sirius, the brightest star

     orion i know

     pollux and castor nearby

 

     the world is shades of gray

 

my introspection drove terri away

     marketa accepts it

     but i miss terri's rhythms

 

     i shouldn't say it, but i do

 

 

~

 

 

three o'clock, twenty-eight years ago, at this time

     on this date

     my mother went into labor

 

     four years ago, nearly, she had insisted on the mausoleum

     i will never understand why

 

     had her ashes been scattered

     she would be with the stars this night

 

 

 

  

tonight i will find my own rhythm

     celebrate in my own way  

 

 

~

 

 

i have never been so happy to be awake at three in the morning

     as i am now

 

     but—yawn—i am sleepy

     time for tea and bed

     

     'goodnight moon

      goodnight stars'

 

      goodnight lynn

 

 

 

 

 

 

`

 

 

 

(margaret wise brown quote)

 

 

 

 

 

 





Poetry by one trick pony The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 42 times
Written on 2019-11-10 at 00:44

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