It’s males who keep me up at night

this was once an exciting thought -

when a man would wake me in the middle of a deep sleep

for a hard ‘conversation’

Later, though, I was kept up by

Anger at the man who made more work for me

rather than being the betrothed helpmate

A son who would not sleep through the night

Until he was well into being five years old

I thought I would never sleep through the night

myself

A cat who insists on going outside at 2:30 am

and returns with the spoils of his hunt

yowling to be let in just as

I was finally falling back asleep.

Now here I am again, being kept awake by thoughts

of you in the middle of the night. 

Nobody told me I would

come full circle.

I was born under a full moon

Which may explain my

Occasional lunacy

And tendency to take

Midnight moonlit walks during

That monthly insomnia

I get like clockwork

Sometimes I wonder if

It’s the extra night light of the

Full moon, but that doesn’t explain

The same effect on cloudy nights

Perhaps it is the extra gravitational

Pull at perigree, on our

Mostly water bodies –

Our own personal high tide

Making us restless.

Or is it just the irresistible

Magic world that seems to appear

On moonlit nights

That makes the night time

A rarely seen event

A place we usually don’t often venture

Where I’m bein’ followed by a moonshadow

Where I see the moon and the moon sees me

Where someone says, “Keep your pants on! Not THAT moon!”

Why don’t we call it a “moonth”

There are twelve moonths in a year.

I was born under a full moon

Which may explain MY

Occasional lunacy

What’s YOUR excuse?

She takes awhile to jog past me on the trail

But jog she does

I don’t see her face

Only her elderly body

And a set of incredibly muscular

Calves and I think

You GO girl!

The one leaving the coffee shop

In her colorful t-shirt

Cropped pants and

Athletic Shoes

Goes out and gets into a

Cherry Red Mustang

Pulls on her sunglasses

And is on her way

You GO Girl

When I am an old woman

I have no intention of wearing

Purple because it doesn’t look good on me

Nor a silly red floppy hat

But I might be out there jogging

Or cruising town in a hot car

It will be a ’64 t-bird

Jet black with a red and white interior

I’ll be pretty cool for a

Septegenarian

Still listening to classic rock

At full tilt. Younger women will

Look at me and think

You GO Girl!

“We’re a caravan.” 

The man said to

me on my walk this morning

I tuned in from my morning walk reverie

to look and

sure enough they were

A caravan of old people with squat dogs

Waddling down the street together

The man in the lead, the women following behind

As is standard in caravans

The only thing missing was the camels

You never know what you will encounter

On an early morning power walk.

This day rich

With wee wild white roses

Covering the overgrown bush

Air saturated with golden blue

Sunshine and heavy beckoning floral pollen

And grass that is growing faster

Than it can be mown

This is not a day for missing you

For crying over what I can’t have

This is not a day for emptying my tear ducts

Ending up an emotionally shredded

Mass of blonde hair and ruddy cheeks

That was for yesterday

Today is for wandering free

Camera in hand

Laughing at the funny things

People do

Watching a sunset

This is a day for being

She sees tree people

Standing out in the river

Talking softly amongst themselves

She says they stop talking when we

Approach them and they

Turn away, these shy tree folk

The only others who can see them

Are the grandchildren who speculate about

Whether they are greek tree spirits or

Japanese tree spirits, 'kodamas'

She likes the theories

She tells of how horrified and surprised

The tree people were when Dad cut down

The butterfly bushes

Their eyes wide, their mouths

Open in large O’s

She says, ‘you should have seen them!’

Silent on the trip home

My daughter asks if I’m ok

I don’t know how to be ok

When my mother sees such things

When the doctors tell us it’s dementia

And it will be getting worse. 

I hide for days, tearfully

mourning my mother who is not gone yet

Sherrie,  my friend, assures me

My mother has just advanced to

A spiritual plane the rest of us

 Haven’t reached yet

And I thank the universe for her

Ability to see the world this way

For my children whose open minds

Allow them to see tree spirits for

My mother who sees tree people

I may never have noticed their

Spirits without her

Now I will never look at them

without seeing her

He takes his burgundy Hummer out

Every few days

Rain or shine

And lovingly washes it using

Strokes that look like

Slow caresses along

Every deep colored surface

With the extra-soft chamois washing cloth

Along every chrome artifice

From the bottom of the bumpers

To the hub caps that could be eaten off of

The roll bars clear up on top

He misses nothing

His world reflects in that perfect shine

His wife isn't home much so

I can only assume that he does not

Share those love baths

With her as well

In the privacy of their

Master suite.

Perhaps, I consider, if he did

she might be home more often

OR

Conversely

because she is not home more

He had to get the Hummer

So he could slowly,

Lovingly wash the finish right off of it

Like a child wears the fur off

A favorite teddy bear

Mother Nature is letting

Cool drops splash on my windshield

To the music of a piano on

the all classical radio station

While I wait in the parking lot

I am thankful to have

Left my cell phone at home

Accidentally, of course,

Thankful for the moments of peace

It feels good to breathe

And watch the drops land

On my windshield

Feels good not to hurry

For just a few moments