I didn’t want the picture-frame device.
I never would have bought it for myself.
I hinted my reluctance, once or twice,
but someone sent it to me anyway
(who’s spent a lifetime deaf to my advice).
Regifting wouldn’t work – he might have felt
like I’d burned sibling love in sacrifice.
I let it load and homed it on a shelf,
and now I find its presence very nice.
The wood above the fence of brick was old.
Some slats were sprung, and ivy compromised
its verticality and too its hold,
but still the trellis partially disguised
the low part of the house I recognized
as rightful building in a neighbor’s yard.
With that in mind, today I was surprised
to see it gone. Its absence hit me hard.
I should have been away but must delay
a journey north, while loved ones’ viral load
diminishes. Those five will be okay,
but I’d be risking much in their abode,
and company would likely discommode
the ill, as much as they are used to me.
For love and health I won’t yet hit the road –
a fortnight’s pause allows recovery.
Although we’ve changed the clocks, and daffodils
amid new tulips spice the yards nearby,
and morning birds greet sunrise with their trills,
and former dormant insects start to fly,
the sight that tokens springtime to my eye,
impressing and engendering belief
renewal isn’t dead, is how I spy
my own persimmon tree begin to leaf.
Between my room and office spans a deck.
Above it looms a eucalyptus tree
that often drops its leaves and leaves a wreck
at times with sap and seeds or twig debris.
But not till last week did I ever see
a limb so large befall that redwood floor.
I wasn’t out or under, luckily.
The winds of March were not this strong, before.
If we review our early history,
and recollect survival modes that you
and I deployed, we’ll witness strategy.
If we review…
And when we isolate the chosen clue
to navigate young trauma, mystery
is shallow – diagnosis is see-through.
We understand what worked for you and me.
But wisdom begs refinement. Black-and-blue
once faded is a step toward clarity,
if we review.
I ate a friendly early lunch, downtown,
and then explored the campus boundary
to find the set-back entrance and lay down
the facts and circumstances curbing me.
And after five-plus months of senselessly
pursuing bureaucratic paths of grief,
I found intelligence that practically
provided forms that seem to form relief.
I never imagined how life would have been
if I were the youngest instead.
It didn’t occur to me when origin
contributes to color the thread.
Birth order’s an issue, and now I’ll begin
to give the discussion some tread.
I watched my dad’s sister. I wince at my friend.
I need to beware of a dangerous trend.
I sometimes think you’re fairly stupid. When
you parrot your old thoughts or network feed,
I stifle yawns and look askance, but then
you’ll utter insight or describe a need
that triggers admiration once again.
I grow to see you faceted indeed.
My brash and silly judgment is negated,
and simple truth embraced – you’re complicated.
We met and soon became committed friends,
eccentrics in our high school for 2 years,
in thought and walks pursuing our own ends,
diverging but with smiles, from our peers.
And I assumed our efforts mutual.
We seemed to have consensus for each act.
We misbehaved a mite, but we were full
of rectitude – our morals were intact.
A little bit delinquent we would be,
agreeing growing up could not be done
without some misdemeanors. I suspect
(but only now) the ringleader was me.
Four parents blamed each other’s kid for fun,
and now I think hers may have been correct.
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