Twenty little toesies—
10 crimson and 10 rosy pink
on lime green flops—
nicely pedi’d, calves massaged
by hands that remolded ours
into happy feet
always a fine way to celebrate
a belated birthday because
dates don’t matter to toesies
all spiffed up and ready to
literally step out on the town—
or at least to lunch—
yours’n’mine,
friend to friend.
•••
(with thanks to friend Laura Martin for the pedi and lunch)
(Ashland, Oregon)
Anxious to find a parking space
too close to the time of our final play,
I crept slowly up the hill by the park,
invoking the trusty parking fairy,
who must’ve been off preparing for
her night’s work onstage—
because it was a midsummer night,
and there was dreaming to be done.
No spot made itself available to
two playgoers. But twice I stopped
saying, “Oh, deer!” to briefly watch
at close range two troupes of females
nibbling grass, oblivious to cars and
people, secure in their momentary safety,
sensing that all would end well, that
those foolish mortals in their rolling
contraptions would do the foragers no
harm. And so, touched by that bit of magic,
I drove on.
And we have seen six marvelous ones
in four days—
we Came From Away to see Emma
finagle relationships, including,
unknowingly, hers,
were swept back to 2001 with
the plane people and their gracious
hosts in Gander,
saw a shrew tamed (and watched
her tame a husband, too),
were Cordially Invited to the End of the World
and wept watching it almost as much
as we laughed,
awoke from A Midsummer Night’s Dream
with perhaps the best rude mechanicals,
fairies and donkey we’ve ever seen,
and found ourselves drawn in by
the complexity of Yellow Face, only
to drive back to our temporary home
and learn that our host is an understudy
for the female lead.
We stood in her back yard under a smoky
night sky, marveling at it all, as we took
turns bending to pet Coconut, our actress
host’s cute white dog,
grateful for all these plays that are,
indeed, the wondrous things that
transport us to so many places
we would otherwise never, happily, go.
•••
With thanks to the Oregon Shakespeare Festival
for their amazing plays this season, along with our
gratitude to our generous Air B&B host Julie Oda
and her family.
(for Nikki)
We have tea’d in Guangzhou where
a young woman presented a carved box
with the gift of chrysanthemum tea,
where we watched little yellow flowers
bloom in hothot water poured
from a heavy bronze pot.
We have sky-high tea’d in Hong Kong
atop the 103rd floor of the Ritz Carlton,
and today overlooking an Oregon creek
at a sweet tea room with the words “love”
and “joy” in its name. Yummy triangle
sandwiches—of course, cucumber,
of course, deviled egg—along with
a scone and a crumpet for each
of us. And oh, the clotted cream
and lemon curd. All with two pots
of tea that two lovely women kept
filled with hot water as we two
talked and ate and remembered
other teas in many countries, including
this one, our own, in a state
north of our own. We are visitors
met with warmth and kindness.
engaging in the ritual of tea
without the pretension. We sip
welcome poured into a cup that
does not match its saucer, nor
the plate on which we place these
indulgences, a mish-mash like us,
each living soul a precious morsel
in this great melange of humankind.
•••
With thanks to Muna Nash and her staff at
Lovejoy’s Tea Room in Ashland, Oregon, whose
slogan is “the ritual of tea with the pretension.”
(Lithia Park, Ashland, Oregon)
Not until we rise after sitting
on a bench by the pond for
a good half hour talking,
as we do, about so many things
in our lives, does it strike me
that we have been reflecting
on the past while focusing on
the present reflections of
venerable trees in still water.
Looking closer, we see upside
down people we will never meet
on the opposite side of the pond.
And I wonder if they are in this
moment also contemplating their
mirrored selves—the people,
that is—the trees having no need
to do anything but stand tall,
offer their leafy parasols
to creatures seeking shelter
and shade on this hot day,
and simply be.
I boarded a plane with you,
nervous flyer, though you’d flown
across the world more times
than I ever will,
to go get the girl, deep in China,
who became your daughter,
waiting for the one she would
call Mama.
That 7-year-old in the too-small
wheelchair, the one you’d held
as a palsied infant in the orphanage,
not expected to live, but who did,
the girl with the infectious smile,
is a much bigger teen now, about
to start high school, rolls through
the world in a snazzier chair,
is good with numbers, even if she
can’t speak. She is, you and I agree,
a marvel, but so are you, my friend,
we two taking a much simpler trip
this week, driving north to an Oregon
town to see plays, your girl at home
with her beloved caregiver, each of you
having a bit of vacation before school
starts. You, too, the marvel. You, too,
with an equally winning smile,
related—as you are to her,
as we are to each other—
by far more than blood, these
slender threads of devotion stitching
you to her, her to you, both of you
to lucky, lucky me.
•••
(For Nikki and Annie)
The peach, sure, just looking at it
lined up with its sisters in a peachy
chorus line, makes us salivate.
But so the red hibiscus with its
opulent color is equally appetizing
to the eye,
both voluptuous creatures sending
come-hither vibes into the air
like sirens
trying to tempt a captain who has
ordered himself tied to the mast,
fearing he cannot resist.
We are drawn to beauty in all its
forms, our senses pulling us toward
what dazzles,
the enticing, the bewitching and
the simply charming. Go ahead.
Touch. Taste.
Let luscious seep into you and be
sated by it. Revel in it, for you know
well how fleeting it is.
Blossom today, gone tomorrow.
And as for that peach, you’re already
reaching for it,
mouth open, ready to take the first
bite.
•••
Thanks to Gayle and Amy for sharing the bounty of their peach harvest.
This, the hot,
which for many of us
in these parts,
means over 100.
Degrees. Farenheit.
And yeah, it’s a dry heat,
but it’s still hotter than
human body temps
should be, which means
we start looking for water
in which to quell the hot.
Which puts me in mind
of the lake down the path
from our house, waiting,
always there with its
glassy surface of a
morning, a cool
promise beckoning—
Come. Dunk. Again.
Again. Better?
Yes, again—
before heading back up
the path, mostly dry by
the time we reached
our door, carrying
molecules of lake
home in still-damp
girl hair
till the next dunk
to chase away,
even for a smidge,
the hot.
(In memory of the sprinkler
king, our father, Roger, who art
in heaven, born this day in 1930.)
Did you hear my prayers, Daddy,
as Donna knelt in supplication in
my front yard, her capable hands
manipulating the plastic bits
that pass for sprinklers these days?
Nothing like the seriously steel
Rain Birds you installed outside
our childhood home after you denuded
the yard of all manner of thigh-high
weeds and thriving poison oak.
You made a fine place for little girls to play,
studded with old oaks unintentionally
watered to death as the lawn grew—
the best back yard ever—two rope swings,
the playhouse you and Grandpa built for us,
my reading and writing tree with its two
horizontal arms supporting a long pipe
between them for us to hang from.
Of course, Donna became the Chief Lawn
Mower and Sprinkler Queen, tutored at your
kingly knee. Mom and I would often see
the two of you outside, crouched in prayer
over a fussy squirter on a Sunday morning—
you, who liked to say that you didn’t need
church, that you could pray just fine
mowing the lawn.
But my finicky citified irrigation mystified
the Sprinkler Queen—not for lack of trying
but for lack of water pressure—which not
even the two of you could fix, despite her
best efforts, your spiritual intercession
and my fervent prayers.
Never mind, I thought, hand watering later
that afternoon. I’ve got the guy who installed
it coming soon to figure it out.
Because look: The poppies are still popping
in my front yard, the little purple geraniums
growing their little hearts out to keep up
with their big pink cousins, and the gangly
lemon thyme—don’t get me started on
the rambunctious lemon thyme—
makes nice tea when coupled with
some overly enthusiastic mint.
Most of all, I got to spend the morning
with the best sister you could have given me,
silently thanking you for everything—
so much of everything—you gave us,
not least your great heart that
beats in us, too.
Cut it open, reveal its
pure heart, and you see
in that dripping watermelon
center how aptly it is named.
And though its label promises
“seedless,” you spot the pale
seedlets dotting the interior
like little buttons. No black
seeds, but, of course, it has
to have grown from something,
as all pure hearts do. You regret
your greed on this hot day
that propelled you to cleave
this open heart, laying it bare
to the air and your waiting
spoon that hovers only briefly
before diving into that perfect
flesh, and savoring that flavor
before swallowing, adding,
at least metaphorically, a bit
of that pure heart to your own.
Güd wrtr 