These Gifts
Walking in spring,
on every corner I meet
flowers
hibiscus, old roses,
irises separated from
her grandmother's stock,
blooming trees
magnolia, catalpa,
something sweet for which
I have no word, no name,
and now on my table
vegetables from
generous gardens
lettuce, crisp and wet,
lemon grass and
sprigs of mint for tea,
basil for almost everything.
Neighborly,
my mother would say,
and dear, giving away
food grown in the soil,
sharing blooms
for my table,
these gifts of kindness
and joy, these friends
who cultivate,
old and new,
yes, neighborly.
| -- | Nancy Taylor Day 4.29.2003 |
Last Love, Lost Love
The day will come
when I'm not here
scratching away in
some coffee shop,
bickering with time
as you once bickered
then gave in and
let it take you
where it would to
some place distant
but not really that
far. Yes, that day
will come, my bones
tell me a little
louder every day.
And there'll be no
more notebooks and
coffee shops, no
words even. And
that's when I'll know
finally that final
thing we had, that
thing that makes death
as inconsequential
as these words I
write, head tilted
hearing your whispered
laughter among the shadows.
| -- | Albert Huffstickler 1.30.01 |
