Working Hands

Gloves here gloves there
Gloves lost everywhere.
Gloves on the side of the road
one on the bench in the park
another at the bus station.
Red and green and yellow.
Work gloves, children’s gloves.
Green kid gloves.
Red wool gloves.
Some with buckles
some with bows
frigid hands and icy toes
lost their gloves
left their gloves.
Naked hands
working hands
chapped hands
holding hands.
Gloves here Gloves there
gloves lost everywhere.
Hammer, nails job well done
left his gloves out in the sun…

Dad’s Mandolin

It was my father’s mandolin
played also by grandfather Nick.
A tradition in our family.
Oh, what a voice.
High and sweet it trilled
low and mournful it sighed,
but only if Dad was there.
I often tried
but it was Dad’s magic.
When Dad played
the sound was perfect,
his notes danced on the steps
with the black dots.
Dancing with Dad was magic, too.
We waltzed at wedding and even
skated together one fine winter.
Every week Dad would play his mandolin.
We would sing sometimes
folk songs and melodies
and I would listen other times,
but always he would play.
Sundays and after work.
A field of corn or beans
across the way
with the woods behind us.
The leaves rustling
and the geese calling
mingling with Dad’s music.

F.O.M.O (Fear of Missing Out)

Covered in dew, we shiver under the blankets,
waiting for the next one as bats zoom in and out of the picture.

A burst of color races across the sky, cascading from
heaven like celestial firecrackers.

Imagined lines play with our eyes as we
search for meteors, until finally they shower us with grace.

I connect the dots and sketch designs in the night sky
imagining how the ancients did the same.

Searching for meaning
as we all do day after day…

FOMO paralyzes us and bears and coyotes lurk
in the shadows, but we do not leave our gravity chairs.

Pin pricks of light like cut outs in construction paper
glimmer in the dome above and a night hawk cries out.

More waiting, wet and tired blackness interrupted only
by a whoop as a big one streaks across the horizon.

We gaze and gaze, waiting for another one
my eyes burn from being so wide open until the moon threatens,

Rising and smearing our spectacular
view with its glow.

Words escape our
gabby selves.

We are so small…
so small…