Eleanor

She sleeps in my arms

as I fall in love with her

tiny body.

All the parts there—

the perfect curve of a fingernail,

the rhythmic rise of a ribcage thin as paper.

Every breath a quiet victory I didn’t earn,

but get to keep for a little while.

She changes every day;

it’s so hard to wake up as she sleeps and sleeps

until her eyes open

and those deep blue eyes look at me.

What can she really see

as I bend low to kiss her forehead,

soft skin against my lips?

And I sing Somewhere Over the Rainbow,

where the lullaby land is right here,

tucked between my shoulder and my chin.

Where the sky is soft and the clouds are skin,

and the trouble melts like lemon drops.

George in the hospital

At ninety-eight,

the years are a blurred map,

except for this:

the sharp, clear grief of a son’s funeral

and the way the Mendelssohn rose

to meet the rafters.

His hand lifts—

a slow, ghost-weight motion

cutting through the heavy air of the room.

He is conducting the shadows now,

guiding a choir only he can hear,

every finger an instrument of memory.

He pays attention to the phrasing,

the swell of the alto,

the steady pulse of the bass.

He is practicing for his entrance.

The score is almost finished.

He is smoothing his lapel,

steadying his breath,

ready to step onto the riser

and find his place

between his wife and his son.

fan

he wears the colours of the Broncos the Phillies the Jets

has been to Springsteen Zevon Tedeschi Trucks

many folk fest favourites 

he reads Tom Clancy John le Carre Wodehouse National Review

he is a true fan of these things 

and he is a true neighbour 

a fan of the family

always there when you need him

wearing the colours of us

 

wireball

dreamed up by eight year old grandson in our back yard 

using the power line that diagonals 

our expansive yard

dropkicking a ball  

a little larger than a tangerine and 

us trying to catch it 

notwithstanding the sun in our eyes 

everyone plays 

an agglomerate of young and old

to the delight of boy 

we play until the light of the moon takes over and 

we can’t see the wire anymore and

we relive our antics until the 

sky turns sable with pinprick of rural stars 

 

this is the last time we play

because we are moving to a milquetoast house 

in the city with no wire and a small fenced backyard

still the boy tries to come up with a plan 

 

so many memories

like watching the kids  zip around the house

each with a pinecone in hand 

wireball will be missed 

boy’s memory romanticized to quadruple its size 

our new home a shell of our former selves

 

Christopher Paul Stelling at Spruce Hollow (Folk Fest '25 #1)

down on his luck 

wearing black with his trusty guitar 

and sawdust voice

dark hair and unshaven face

singing about life and love 

so happy to be here performing 

for this northern audience that loves him 

this is therapy 

this is a balm for us and him down on his luck

lime

she says it is now

the size of a lime

and it is growing a liver 

and we are proud grandparents

always proud 

whether a lime growing a liver 

or a two and a half year old who goes 

tweet tweet before jumping in the water or 

a 9 year old doing the actions to a song at camp 

for it is no small thing to be a lime 

try it sometime 

moving

things in every little corner 

and closet in this house that need to go 

or get boxed up for the movers 

32 years worth of papers and pictures 

and shoes and dishes 

and dvds and cds and books

and electronics and clothes 

and nick knacks and vases 

and tea and winter boots 

and all the pictures on the walls 

that point to other places and 

people with their own piles of things