Between Heaven and Stone

Abba, there’s a rush of Heaven-water out my window.

Sounds of earth and stones gulping, swallowing and gasping,

For more of Heaven’s gift.

Cool and pelting, still soft and warm

Against skin and mud and leaves.

Leaves,

Autumn burnt and crispy till,

Heaven wishes them soggy and limp.

The boldest ones still hang on branches

drip, drip, drip.

Almost xylophone, the pavement pings

a different tone

Than petal, blade or stone.

Night refuses to rest her head,

Keeps one lid drooping over dawn.

Always the Holidays

Apple-cinnamon aroma abreast the autumn air.

Lilting laughter lingers long.

Watching wild-eyed,

As ash alights the air from an ardent flame.

Youngest ogling yummy yams and yellow squash.

Sounds of shed leaves like shattering stain glass.

 

Always the warmth of holiday.

Always the fragrance of home.

Always the mirth and the longing.

Always sweet memory aching.

Dying Things

Fallen

Foliage fingerprints.

Prism mums,

Oft sunlight glints.

And dying things.

 

Flow’rs huddle low,

‘Neathe  coming cold.

Day dies young

With setting sun.

And dying things.

 

Bug’s knees creak,

Old, aging, weak.

Bedtime’s early,

Heads soft and curly.

Just sleepy things…

Picking Up Dog Poop

The Lie (OK, this one is comic relief): Someday you’ll outgrow having to do your chores!

Picking up dog poop.  We used to have to go around our large fenced backyard with a pair of scoopers that opened and shut their jaws like giant scissors.  My sisters and I fought over who had to do it this time.  The smelly job involved picking up each stinky mess and putting it into an old paper grocery bag.  The thank-less job preceded the lawn mower.

 

At first that was my parents’ job.  They traipsed along behind the green, push mower, collecting shredded grass in the catcher.  Then they dumped the clippings into a garbage bag.  As I grew that became my job, and how I loathed it.  What a treat when that chore became obsolete.  My husband and I bought a town-home when the Army moved us to Washington.  I gloated happily from my window above each time I watched the guys from “Soundview Landscaping” buzz their blades around my yard.

 

I do miss one chore from history.  Leaves – the delightful, crunchy, colorful remains of summer.  Every fall they dove to the ground, plucked from their branches by Oklahoma winds. My sisters and I fought again, but this time for the joy of who could wield the rake.  Piles of dusty oak leaves grew in each corner of the yard.  Pictures show us bouncing in the trash cans, smashing leaves lower and lower to make room for one more handful.  Other snapshots prove that it wasn’t all work and no play.  We took running starts and slid into piles of leaves like Babe Ruth sliding into home plate.