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

     its 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 460 times
Written on 2019-11-10 at 00:44

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