My phone said bitter orange, but I know
the origin of this persimmon tree.
A neighbor dug it in ten years ago,
and though its fruit has never tempted me,
I like its glossy leaves and pulpy glow,
and how in autumn its geometry
appears a rack with dangling ornaments,
and serves as host for squirrel tournaments.
When Cottage Club resumed on All Saints Day,
I didn’t carry candy with my gear.
I’d been for near two dozen days away,
but Halloween had made four bags appear.
Our cups were overfull, our snickers gay;
it’s like a payday only once a year.
The kids were smarties and our time was fine –
returning me to sweets of 5 and 9.
I’ll mute this blog for 20 days or so.
Before a streak becomes a bully pest,
I’ll pause the pen and so unpen a flow
of novel observation. I’ll invest
attention otherwise and come to know
environments as temporary guest.
My pack and too my feet will move perforce.
I hope to lever learning in my course.
I watched a hummingbird above my gate,
that sipped pineapple salvia in bloom.
I marveled at how steadily she ate,
and pondered while returning to my room
how little time she had to vegetate,
how short her life, how forced she is to zoom.
Appreciating idleness and leisure,
I dedicated morning then to pleasure.
His careless comment may have clued me in.
“Well you’re so (goddamn?) confident,” he said.
That disregard, before I could begin
to voice idea, sent talk elsewhere instead.
Perhaps I ought to view this as some cred.
My act of self-assurance found success?
Or does this mean he’s so much in his head
he cannot see how slewed I am by stress…
The Covid exploded some plans for the week,
but didn’t sack me or my kids.
I won’t see my brother; the drug that I seek
(that nasty bacteria rids)
will have to be purchased an alternate way
(but I can adjust to that change).
A wrench has been thrown at some tasks. I’m okay,
and sorry that he’s feeling strange.
Last week they hugged me with a sweet request:
Can we make brownies? was the eager ask.
(I overnight most Fridays, not as guest
but more a member – up for such a task).
We browsed 4 recipes and voted best
the one that would allow we 3 to bask
while cooking in the light of a cartoon –
nice projects on an autumn afternoon.
I’m teeming with well-merited fatigue.
I left my San Francisco bed at five,
and readied (doing puzzles) for the league
of love called Cottage Club. We always thrive
with Switch and iPad screens, and on intrigue
supplied by Dahl or Lewis. I revive
enough to journey home. I lock my lair,
and book in hand I take the napping chair.
We started choosing near a year ago
the way we’d celebrate her jubilee.
We tossed ideas for places to and fro;
across the pond we landed plans for three,
and added half a week in NYC
(forever fun and pausing on our way
back home). It’s getting close enough that we
are contemplating ventures for each day.
I wouldn’t write these stanzas, but what stuck
inside my busy head was strident-speak
by someone I’d admire if she’d tuck
away the vehemence and her technique
of loud opinionation. What the fuck
is gained by shooting down with a critique
a helpful phrase an expert to me spoke?
“Well, that’s one woman’s notion,” was her poke.
“You seem to have strong feelings,” I replied.
She stammered something then and took a beat.
The vehemence without a sputter died,
and her expression shifted to a sweet
acknowledgment she never meant the heat.
Did I unearth a clue? When she’s a bitch,
can I by parent-speaking trick-entreat
a testy cranky attitude to switch?
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