GOING HOME AT TWILIGHT
Coming down the trail at twilight,
I am perilously close to
being stranded in darkness.
Earlier I had figured
I could ski the loop
before it got dark.
I was wrong.
But I know where I am,
and in the dwindling light
I see the trail, and the trail
will bring me home.
It is snowing hard.
When I stop, the only sound in the forest
is snow falling on snow.
About to push off
and begin the long downhill run
back to the logging road,
I hear just above my head
a sound like the comforter
being moved as my wife turns in her sleep.
I look up and see a huge snowy owl,
wings wide spread,
gliding down the same trail,
staying below the branches,
occasionally pumping huge wings
to navigate around a tree.
My eyes follow the owl down the glide path
until he disappears in the twilight and snow.
I am left alone in the growing darkness,
hearing again only the sound of snow,
wondering if the owl is going home, too.
REMINDERS OF A DOG NOW GONE
We no longer have dog-hair tumbleweeds
blowing along the surface of the hardwood floors or
lurking in corners and crevasses of wall and baseboard.
But occasionally, cleaning an out-of-the-way closet,
I come across another dainty phantom-like wisp
of golden retriever underdown that reminds me of him.
Waxing the bathroom floor,
I see the chewed edges of the baseboard
where he experimented with wood trim
as a way to pass the time until we got home.
Out in the garage, looking for the plumber’s snake
with which to probe the septic line,
I confront at eye level his choke-chain collar
with the license tag
hanging from a nail in one of the ceiling joists.
It seems to be out of place, hanging from a nail.
It belongs around his neck.
I wonder what the point is now of a car with a sunroof.
No big golden retriever to stand on the center console
and make the world smile.
Rather than making me sad, though,
these unexpected encounters with a dog now gone
warm my mood,
soften any edges clinging to thoughts and attitudes
of the moment,
much in the same way he leveled my emotions
and put a smile on living.
He is still here and there,
still a presence in my heart.
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MID-NOVEMBER
In mid-November, when the trees are bare,
and the smell of burning leaves
hangs lightly on the breeze----
when the solemn silence of an autumn afternoon
is made holy by the chanted anthem of a wing of southbound geese----
when the slanting sunlight of late afternoon fades into twilight,
and the twilight dissolves into the blue-black sky of evening----
when Mom and Dad have returned from work
and are busy feeding the kids
or wrapping them in towels as they climb out of the tub----
old men are still outdoors,
leaning on their rakes,
denying the darkness.
APPRECIATING THE TABLEWARE
I took the morning off today.
Stopped in to see old friends.
Three different stops.
Sat down and got caught up.
Saw an old friend from high school.
We’ve stayed in touch through the years.
Intervals between our meetings are getting shorter.
We seem to cherish these moments now,
not take them for granted any more.
He has prostate cancer.
I have Parkinson’s.
As we get older,
my male friends and I
are more apt to hug when we say goodbye.
We start with a handshake,
but as soon as our hands meet,
we seem to realize
our friendship warrants
an embrace.
In that moment
we silently acknowledge
things never spoken:
that we are mortal and the clock is ticking;
that goodbyes at our age have a greater
chance of being final;
that friendships that have lasted
through the years are sterling, not plate.
There was a time when I didn’t
pay much attention to the tableware.
Now I 'm starting to see
the beauty in a pattern of silver,
the brilliance of freshly polished sterling,
the rich patina of age.
I should take the morning off more often.
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