.
I put glass jars
of extra water in the fridge
in case the power goes out and pipes freeze –
storm warnings on the weather channel
but also I feel it in my bones,
that ache of drastically changing
weather,
and the throb in my head
reminds me to connect with loved ones
and to take a walk
in the current odd mild blue-sky quiet,
before being socked in.
.
.
.
Winter is close upon me
too tight;
I can’t shake its cold or drear
nor easily take them,
itching to find a warmer place
for awhile,
while the grass crunches beneath my feet
my fingertips hurt
my face dry and brave
as I walk quickly
and yearn to run,
yet from beneath steel-grey sky
Sun
suddenly glints:
take heart, it means to say –
winter is but a season
Spring shall chase away.
Ah. Thus I change course,
head to the florist shop today,
in search of a tiny fern plant
with feathery tendrils
just beginning
to unfurl . . .
.
.
.
The day dawns cold and dim,
the floor too chilly,
the robe too far away –
the snow cover out the window
blanketing
far better
than my own bed-blankets today.
.
.
.
Night comes too soon,
I am just hitting my stride and comfortable
with the day,
all work and chores done,
a chance to relax, time to have fun –
yet night creeps in
drops its darkness
as shades drawn upon the windows
and quiet upon the neighborhood
as traffic slows and
I do, too
my mind finally following
my body to bed
where I dream
in and of another place:
it is day
and we several of us
leave together a house on a rocky hill
down a winding dirt road
and I am holding what everyone needs:
metal shapes, small and smooth,
that contain strength
like vitamins to the touch
and more importantly which bind us together
as family,
held together like magnets
bound to our hearts
so we will never leave one another,
the only danger is in waking
where this world ends abruptly
like a rainbow soap bubble
popped
and gone.
.
.
.
Ping, pings on glass
barely audible;
the iced flakes hit the window
as I lie in bed
thinking of my neighbor
who’d told me, as I shoveled the sidewalks,
that she used to shovel more when she was my age, obviously unaware our ages are the same –
the assumptions people make –
she is so jumpy, she’d said, because she was once almost jumped: “Thank God I wasn’t, you have no idea how scary…”
assuming I, quiet, calm, collected,
walk without fear
as I watch those assumptions
over my shoulder,
and startle at the ice crystals
hitting the window.
.
.
.
I used to believe I was strong
and tough,
having taken (mostly gracefully)
all
that Life had thrown in my direction.
“What doesn’t kill you makes you
stronger,” a well-meaning but
stupid man once said to me;
he didn’t know me.
He didn’t know that
although the default setting was
one foot in front of the other
and
shouldering the pain,
walking through life
trudging at times
with so much weight –
weighty things at too tender an age
heavy things like deaths and abuse and abandonments
may be worn silently inside like a badge of honor
but more so they wear
they wear down
one’s armor
to the thin skin
I presently find myself in.
“Find a soft place to land,”
my soul whispers to me;
though pain is not fleeting,
Joy
is Louder,
and there is no telling
when Life begins again,
perhaps right around the corner,
a warm breeze
around the next bend.
.
.
.
Happy New Year!
I say this with both excitement
and trepidation,
for is not each
day
new and full
of expectation?
Yet, a new Year!
Three hundred and sixty-five new beginnings –
’tis both awe inspiring, and
daunting.
I don’t need to lose weight,
I have no habits to break
but
I need to find my place
in this universe:
I need to right the ship of my life
and sail confidently,
I need to throw off the blanket of fear
that covers me;
picture me first in a little rowboat, huddled
tossed about on an uncertain sea,
and then: New Year!
The ship has a full sail and
glides,
the blanket has been thrown overboard
and sunshine warms me –
I squint to see
a guardian angel by my side,
because in my New dreams
only the best passengers abide,
and we need no baggage –
only a kind and open heart.
.
.
Happy New Year, one and all! May you sail confidently and joyfully into this new year! ~ Peri
.
.
.
.
.
It is too cold to get out of bed
‘tis the weekend fortunately
as I look around me at the sunrising walls
I realize I could
pack a suitcase and leave it all
and be ok, all the things accumulated heavy in my mind
have been company
I realize I could
live without
my – the – collections of books and photographs, little treasures of Art and Nature, hundreds and hundreds of things things things I’ve carefully curated for years
have been stand-ins for people, for family
I love, I miss…
and this morning, my body chilled but my mind fresh in the new day,
I hear my self say:
leave the things, find them new homes,
go find your own. Go find love.
I realize I could.
My feet upon the hardwood floor are cold, so cold,
but my heart is warm, the day is new.
I should.
.
.
.
Where are all the runners today?
And the walkers
With their dogs, and little plastic bags,
or spouses, or strollers . . .
The paths are deserted
though thickly carpeted, beige with splotches of gold
maple leaves,
damp but crunching here and there
such a chill in the air
yet little birds chirp softly staccato in the background
quieted by plaintive dark drawn-out caws
now and then.
–
I walk the path between the two rows of trees,
some scraggled and bare but for several lime circles of walnuts hanging,
some full of brightness: mandarin scarlet against blackened branches against today’s high grey cotton sky.
–
Green fields low like lawns roll endlessly on either side –
and there I stand,
as if in the midst of an expanse of ocean
or prairie
how alone
or in the middle of the city’s sea of skyscrapers –
scapes all similar
in their vast loom,
one person
in the midst of
life’s waves.
.
.
.
Tell that person in the mirror
You are Good
enough
(you are Human, so naturally not perfect).
It took many years to
tell myself this;
it is so easy to see imperfections
to notice what is wanting,
in myself glaringly so,
but, as someone who likes challenges,
I accept that I am made with likeness
to the divine –
how illuminating! –
and thus I search for those glimmers
of ethereal beauty
and bright fleeting moments of divine inspiration.
This morning
I made enough food to feed the hungry here
for several days,
with the added bonus that cooked potatoes have a lower glycemic index after being refrigerated.
I brought two porch plants inside
for cheer in the coming winter,
and I mailed off some joyful illustrations
to family who may or may not appreciate them,
and yet
I feel good, when I look in the mirror today.
I may even look good
in the eyes of the Lord.
.
.
.
I thought I was normal.
Maybe not.
Of course we all have our quirks, each one of us an individual
but
I only need to take a meter reading to send to the utility company
from the side of the building near the loud irascible neighbor’s door
and I dread it.
It will take two minutes.
I only need to
throw away
a few boxes of accumulated treasures –
I use that term loosely –
“treasures.”
And I dread that, too. I don’t even want to look at them.
Winter is coming.
I am already cold.
The future is the blurriest bleakest . . .
but you’re right, it’s not even here yet
and I know all this? I was the eternal optimist
before covid’s living in dystopian fiction,
but I turn on the news now and
I cannot turn a page.
. . .
The sun rises apricot over the autumn trees
as I stand at the window,
a cup of tea with fresh lemon and ginger warming my hands,
and I think:
you are not too far gone;
no one would put lemon and ginger in worthless tea
or tea for the worthless,
or smile and sigh
at sunrises not worth seeing.
.
.
The palette of fall
blurred today by heavy rain
graces the hedgerows and tree rows,
even the soft muted skyscape,
barely any color at all
above melted umbers, subdued oranges, crimson,
gold and amber,
the pathways leaching green
over ruddy concrete,
mud and rainwater,
speckled here and there with confetti
little leaves all a-color
stuck there
as if post celebration.
We stop, our windbreakers soaked,
and bend over the walkway to look deep within
at the puddle-trees
with their filigree
branches as if lovingly etched,
more Dürer than happenstance –
they do not drown, nor are even blurred,
but hold court above their own glowing sepia sky
in the alternate wet world down there,
momentarily inviting
yet impossible,
as Nature often is.
.
.
This – this is searching for home, I suddenly realize:
in each new town a vagabond
setting up camp,
scant furnishings dragged about
out of habit and mere functionality
managing to move them mostly
by myself
yet soon surrounded by crowds
of lovingly-framed photographs and books, prized art curated carefully upon the walls, rows of little handmade gifts of clay or cloth or beads or boondoggle, leaves and smoothed stones and sea glass and Spanish moss from our far shores together, a few family heirlooms in places of honour
that would mean little to anybody else –
but from this campsite I
feel the weather,
keep the shelves stocked, the plants watered,
venture out to admire the beauty of this world,
and await a return,
or is it a rescue or
a revelation?
Who can tell?
I listen to the conch shell and pluck a tea-fortune from a small wheel-thrown bowl, its jeweled glaze gleaming in the sun:
Look Forward to Your Dreams.
One day this campsite may become a launch pad. I bend over the notebook on my desk, and write.
.
.
My little one, in my heart always . . .
it does not matter how old you are,
nor me; my heart does not grow older
though the years layer your life as
chapters in a book
I read eagerly, then watch the episodes, the films
as if you are my favorite character;
I am invested and enthralled,
await, anticipate, celebrate
while you
have no idea,
as you go about your days,
the ties, the loosenings, and tears of parenthood,
everything good and pure I’ve ever had inside myself
given joyfully
from the very beginning,
those consumed tiring early years growing into
such cherished memories and precious hopes
stretched and stepped upon,
holding on
to holding on.
.
.
In the twilight
on the far lawn:
mounds, low mounds.
I squint to see –
are they piles of fallen leaves,
though in the still cool air…?
Could they be
yes I think they are
several large deer,
lying there
on the wet cold grass,
no shelter
no warmth
but scant moonlight
somewhere from that clouded sky.
If moonlight is enough, deer,
why might not I
claim its shelter,
rapt in moonlight
these cool quiet nights of autumn?
.
.
The soft rain, the creeping sun
stretch
the day has begun –
each morning I listen as I wake,
volume low
thinking: you do want to know
the news
Jarring, this world
slams its sorties into us
no matter how faraway;
we are part
in our hearts
futile and shocked and angry,
achingly sad
still:
even our own little families
can’t manage to be more loving –
it is all I really want,
the small ambitions of a broken heart
amidst the rubble of life
wars far
and near;
trudge on, and try
to be kinder –
one of the only day-to-day battles
we might win.
.
.
In the dim waning light
of evening,
I kneel upon the hardwood floor
as in so many young fresh years
before,
knowing these bony knees will be bruised
in the morning,
but for now the old white comforter
catches my elbows
and hides the tears
of all the prayers, all these years;
the hardest floors
are those we’ve
never reached.
.
.
When I lie in bed held by darkness
(the only thing that envelops me now
as you used to do)
I imagine what will one day flash before my eyes
with various filters:
Care, Laughter, Love —
and you
only you
frequent these vignettes,
our fraught but glorious days,
our times unencumbered, and unafraid:
at the top of the hill, the city and beyond
at sunset, grass lit
golden, and sky infinite,
you simply held my hand,
yours I feel
when I close my eyes at the end of the day —
and in the night, in those days
when night at last,
you held me
as if I mattered
as if precious and
cherished
as we all should be.
Now, heavy,
the darkness does the same:
you are not one of us
the breezes at the window whisper,
sleep,
sleep, sleep
do not fear nor wish
that you will ahhhh wisp away;
a stone would not so wish!
Just sleep, and dream
embraced
by the night.
.
.
.
The weather and I
walk together, oftentimes –
soft rain today
rinsing dust and drear away,
shining the sidewalk, driveway, and street;
it doesn’t take much to polish and gleam
a sad dingy world.
The breezes
loose the orange and golden leaves
bright against freshened greens,
the long-ago normal times seem
still possible
when beauty stays close amidst all,
and the rain washes,
the breeze carries,
the weary
and the spent
leaves become tokens of hope
and reminders
of rebirth to come.
.
.
.
The Sunday air is damp and chilly
the Sunday sky colorless.
My Sunday soul stretches
to recall Sunday mornings
with Sunday rush of dress, dress shoes hat coat
tiny gloves with pearl buttons at wrists
heels clicking on tile cold to the knee
the booming echoing organ, the church choir
shrill
Sunday prayer upon prayer
and afterward the warm fresh air
the Sunday smiles and Sunday cheer
then home
to Sunday slow:
Sun lighting the kitchen bright yellow
french toast
butter melting
Sunday laughter Sunday comics
Sunday kitchen-table camaraderie
the Sunday scent of pot roast
and Sunday parlor filling with relatives
the sheet off the couch
a new week uncovered
much the same as the week before
enveloped then
in Sunday comfort.
The Sunday air today is
damp
and chilly.
The prayers shiver
and do their best to ascend.
.
.
.
The cool of the breeze feels unfamiliar,
an interloper upon this summer
that has burned with a fury I cannot recall
in usual summer seasons
languid under trees
strolling beaches, walking cities;
the heat the shootings the fires
the daily news
yet today the air feels cleansed
and it whispers
as it rides upon the hopefulness
of battered souls,
as if beckoned reprieve from on high
waved the wind
away from wildfires and towards
wild weary hearts.
.
.
.
It was not the usual sort of event I attend
but these are not usual times
and rather than circling the drain awash in sickened sad disbelief
well it was a sunny day what can I say,
the day beckoned
brighter than I felt
so I walked around and chatted with
whomever smiled back and returned my Hello
because I was in decidedly-friendly mode,
but the oddest thing
perhaps
was that a boy
or young man still in high school
who had walked both his grandfather and his bike over to the personal-camper exhibit
told me all about his life and times
even long after his grandfather had left us.
I mean: hobbies and plans and neighbors and jobs
anticipated, actual, elaborated, imagined –
everything blended so well it was hard to tell
fact or fiction
but I didn’t much care, really just being there
for camaraderie anyway.
So after I heard about the Lamborghini next door that he could ride in, anytime
and the college courses he took to use in his part-time job which already afforded him a comfortable living,
he rode off on his bike wishing me well
and I walked around some more,
and over near the food trucks
where the mingled smells of sweets and spices and meats so filled me that I couldn’t eat a thing,
there was a young boy with his dad
a friendly little boy who said hello and laughed and said he thought the chicken and waffles might be good
while the dad stood aside and surveyed the food-truck area and then the farther crowd as if he were looking for someone
then grabbed his son’s hand and said hey there’s your brother let’s go
and when clear across the crowd the little boy turned and waved to me
enthusiastically,
his father turned to look at me with such a clearly-puzzled expression
I knew he meant “who the heck are you my son is waving to?”
so I shrugged, an exaggerated shrug to be sure
he could see me
then he turned and continued walking
until they met up with a white-haired gentleman walking beside a boy
with a bike
who could be in his neighbor’s Lamborghini this very minute if he wanted to be.
I thought: how odd that
out of this whole crowd in this whole expanse
I had talked to these two brothers
back to back
as if
the universe had aligned us just so, for pleasant conversation,
unless of course you have a
better explanation.
.
.
.
At the three windows are wisps of old sheers bleached white,
i watch them lift only slightly in what might be
finally a breeze
summer’s air so heavy it sits upon my chest my breathing a small wheeze
likely a remnant
of disease long ago,
one of many afflictions to come and go in this life, lucky for the immunity my mother would say
short of asking are you ok how do you feel
declaring instead
you will be fine one day.
I await
the dawn as I recline on the sage-green sofa beneath the three windows
squinting to see the lighter clouds
in the deep sky.
.
.
.
The air is moist, tiny droplets fogged on the windows like summer’s tears
the morning chilly after weeks of nights that refused to cool off,
then: we longed for relief
now: we wish summer to stay.
I dash for a wrap for warmth over white sleeveless muslin,
it is painful to think of winter on its way
and the futility
of beseeching summer to stay.
.
.
Two dowager pigeons imperious
walk down the steep ridge of the roof.
If they of ubiquitous grey pudge
so dare,
who am I
to stay static,
immobile in fear
and reticence?
.
From the Perimeter . . . 
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