Morning rain escalated into an early afternoon thunderstorm, which, if the forecast is correct, will spawn more thunder and rain as the day progresses. The squirrels and warblers don’t seem to mind, so maybe I shouldn’t, either.
photos
The Old Dog
There’s no way around it. Indigo is getting old.
Time steadily steals her enthusiasm for tag, thwarts her agile leaps to catch a ball. Deafness eases her thunder phobia, but also ruins her nightly reunions with my husband. She no longer hears his approach, so misses his entrance. Failing eyesight slows her pace, and a few terrible crashes have turned her tentative in the dark.
Her age hurts. I ache when she stumbles on the steps or staggers stiffly through what was once an exuberant dance of greeting. I’m doubly wounded when she snaps in frustration, compensating for growing weakness with the only defense left to her.
It’s a dreadful miracle, this loving of dogs. Their lives are so short compared to ours, traversing so many different paths to inevitable loss. Even so, I’m not sorry to have loved this dog, to love her yet, despite her spectacular array of bad habits and neuroses. She’s a deeply flawed beast, but aren’t we all?
Poet’s Block
Poet’s Block
An image of a weathered seashell
Keeps my monitor from standing blank
Like a cruel mimic of the blank document
That repels my words
They fall from it
Veer around its margins
Break their brittle syllables against the screen
Which is once more a seashell
I press my ear to the shell’s flat shadow
To hear my own intent
The low tidal ebb of phrase
Whispered in computer current
But there is only hum
And static-snap
And the odd warmth of waiting
The shell’s soul was stolen
Taken from the ocean
In proof of all the wisdoms
That counseled fear of cameras
Because nothing whispers from an image
Nothing breathes
And yet
And yet all is there
Every conch curve
And shaded whorl
And all my words that failed
To echo the ocean
Or uncover the cloud shrouded sky
Or mention how snails are never simple
Or charge their syllables with metaphor
To mean more than a word
More than a blank screen
More than a poem
I haven’t written
Lost for days
In the image of a seashell
Published in The Journal of Liberal Arts and Education Winter 2010
From the “Lost” Section of the Lost and Founds
From the “Lost” Section
Of the Lost and Founds
Missing for the past few years
But seen occasionally
Behind rising western thunderclouds
Or under a theater seat
Once hanging from the second chord
Of Clair d’Lune
Several times, reports will show
It was spotted in the empty spaces
Of Ursa Major
And it caused an accident
On a dirt lane in Kentucky
When it flew out of a yellow oak leaf
You’ll know it by touch
Like warm mud between your toes
And its smell of crayon
Confirmation will come
Days later
When you find yourself humming
Quick medleys of childhood song
And reciting nonsense rhyme
Offering a reward for its recovery:
That you shall keep it
If first you contact me
With news that it survives
That it wasn’t blown up
Or mortally wounded by gunfire
Or trapped forever by a politician
Hammered into a campaign speech
But isn’t it true
That all things lost
Must be found
What goes up
Must come down
As you are searching
Keep in mind
It will be in the last place you look
And where you least expect it
Published in The Journal of Liberal Arts and Education Winter 2010
Cicadas
Summer seems within reach, so I can’t resist a selection from the summer archives.
Cicadas
Their last earthbound form clings
hollow gargoyle relic of claw and eye
split with surgical precision to release
the winged adult.
If I held one of these amber
husks to my ear, would a dusty
song of waning summer pulse
like the tide in a scrolled shell?
Rae Spencer 