Saturday, July 25, 2009



I dream there is a carnival in my backyard with pony rides. I try to send them away but they say they are shareholders and have come to pick apples in the orchard. They ask where the restroom is and where the snack bar might be, and sure enough it is right down the corridor. I shake my head in confusion. They tour my home like it is a museum, admiring the grand staircase and the marble bathrooms. But there is the lake view they haven’t found out about yet, far back beyond a circle of concrete. My mom agrees, it is too much for the dogs and tries to cordon off the back yard. Still they come.

My dreams. No spiders spinning webs, just fragments in which I know no logic is required. I hide under blankets from soldiers with many other bodies crammed in together like pieces of a puzzle. We lie still when we hear them rummaging, then when quiet comes, we rearrange ourselves to fit still more bodies in. Then there is a train ride and driving and sewing, though the seams are coming apart. I am sewing jeans, endless pairs of jeans; stitches wiz by like lane markers. I know I can wake up and that this is all wrong, but I don’t, I am too tired even to protest. So I go along with the rapidly changing scenarios, cycle through emotions and wonder what lies in wait in the next crevice of my sleeping brain.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

July Garden

Saturday, July 18, 2009

In Place

The laundry sways in the breeze.  A dragonfly settles on an orange and pink stripe of a limply hanging shirt.  High and low notes swirl upwards pausing for deep strokes then rising in quick motions.  Violin, then oboe from the house across the street. Kids buzz by on bikes with baseball hats and bats sticking out of backpacks, folks rattle grocery carts over sidewalks, the jingle of dog tags stop and then start.  I am still.  I am in place as the wind builds up a rustle of leaves in the oaks and elms.  

Muddy footprints flop across the deck, brightly colored toys are scattered across the lawn; a yellow toy boat, a rusted green car, broken balloons in pink and orange.  The earth, covered in brown cocoa shells is moist now and the sun shines for just a moment.  Weeping mulberry bushes hang their heart-shaped leaves low.  My words are limited, hard to come by.  I sit. 

Thick green vines grow upward and outwards, some with spikes and spines, some smooth and fuzzy, some fragrant with the scent of fresh garden salsa.  Blossoms are brown and dry or small and yellow waiting for pollination.  Still others open in full white, orange and purple blooms. An endless variety of color.

Children's faces are stained purple by berries; they run through the grass after balls and dogs then sit quietly building statues with rocks and sand.  The green hose wraps around a lawn chair dripping slowly through a purple nozzle.  Muddy gloves dry in the sun.  This is my summer now that all is quiet, the endless chatter and motion settling back into the gentle swaying of laundry on the line.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Colors of Summer