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)