(a recent poem)

Weathering

Rain erupts in sudden squalls

flooding the sun out of the sky.

The mood in the car veers too.

Yesterday’s bickering resurfaces

but there’s no point in a rehash.

Tight-lipped, we lean away from each other

counting the yellow dots of headlights

marching along the wet pavement.

At North Bend we turn off the interstate

crab about lousy drivers

unsynchronized traffic lights

grease-smeared puddles spattering everything.

Out on the back roads

we weave among cottonwoods gone gold

silky green pastures

black soil tilled into even ribs.

Near Conway the storm lets up.

An easier silence expands around us

as the gray asphalt etches a straight line

between wide flat farms.

Suddenly around one last turn

there’s a sea of white fluttering

atop an open field. Thousands

of snow geese murmur and rise in small eddies

then settle onto the damp earth.

You slow the car as sun splits the clouds.

A low slant of tawny light washes the flock.

In that flurry of absolution

our hands touch.

Becoming invisible

My childhood hiding place was in my mother's garden. She cultivated a large chunk of our backyard with strawberries, potatoes, tomatoes, leeks, onions, chives, cucumbers, beans, and -- most delicious of all -- raspberries. I used to go on the backside of those vines where they arched over the wires restraining them and leaned across the neighbor's fence.

I was thin as a reed and knew a place where I could slip through the thorns into that dappled bower. In the heat of July, among the buzzing bees, I blended into the shade. The dirt was always cool under my knees and the scents time-traveled me into prehistory where I foraged beneath the twisting vines for berries among the toothy leaves. Out of sight from the front of the patch, these jewels stayed longer to ripen and were fat and sweet. I made a sling with the bottom of my t-shirt and gathered rounded handfuls into it. Then I leaned back into the fence and ate my treasures, one by one.

If someone came to the back door and called my name, I didn't answer right away. Instead I crept to the far edge of the line of vines, away from my secret entrance. When Mama or Daddy or my brother went back inside, I popped out from hiding and circled the house before going in. "Were you calling me?" I asked, oblivious to the way my red-stained fingers gave me away.

Resume: I can get along with anyone.

Fifty cents was the Christmas gift limit and one name put in and one name drawn out of Mrs. Murphy’s basket. My fifth grade teacher taught me much that year about getting along.

I folded my name several times and on each fold wrote something like, “He’s great!” and “Fantastic person!” I drew Alan’s name and knew I would spend fifty cents on something he hopefully wouldn’t like. I didn’t care much for Alan. I didn’t know who drew my name. A little disappointed no one read my quips aloud.

On the day before Christmas break Mrs. Murphy passed out the gifts that had accumulated under the little tree. I smiled as Alan opened a box with fifty one-cent rubber balls, and tried to keep them corralled as they spilled on the floor. I was satisfied with the embarrassing laughter of the other kids.

It was my turn. I opened my carefully wrapped gift to find a small ceramic donkey. What! With disappointment I read the attached note, “Carl, you are bright and may go far in this life if you don’t make an ass of yourself.” Signed, “Mrs. Murphy.”

A Reminder of Our Time Together

To welcome you to our blog, I invite you to savor the essence of our time together with this radio segment that features Kim reading a poem at the Seattle Public Library in March. The poem "For My Friends" reminds us of the importance of experiencing the natural world first hand. This reading was broadcast on KUOW, the NPR affiliate in Seattle.
-- Kathleen