As Mourning Doves Persist

Clouds or not. This tent marks the clearing.  Corners stitched together  make honeycomb cocoon.  Someone crawled out, solitary, first  to assemble breakfast. Bacon and berries and bread drenched in batter. Someone gathered lost shoes. Arranged palm-sized rocks. Shuffled canvas chairs to circle the fire pit still smoking, to awaken day's amphitheater. Brothers paired for strumming. Cousins who linger in nap tents  to talk,  stretching. Redwood trees and rock river quietly flatter silver banks. Kayaks of fathers. Monarchs, arching, glide. Someone stitched these burgundy seams. Who told the moon to greet me? When I crawled out, sleepless, no longer lonely.

for condiment, only mustard, dusty dark Dijon. Merely mustard for the garlic sausage and to spread across tortilla. Top curlicues of sweet potato fries. Dribble on fresh wilt spinach. Only mustard for this retreat. Two days away with this most confident of seasonings and a tall thin jar of olives, gin, Earl Grey, and dark chocolate covered toffee. But there is also salt in this casita and cane sugar on a shelf in a bag with clothespin to clasp it shut. A soldier’s queue of spices including Chef Paul Prudhomme’s Magic Blend. A writer will not starve here. Nothing bland. Sharp is the dab of smoky paste against the sweet fried bites speared with foreign fork. Not mayonnaise. Not sour cream. The mustard is the master, no matter.

Once she was a lapful of a girl. We read the same bedtime story over and over again about a mother and daughter who collected pennies and quarters in a great big jar. The mother was a waitress, I think, and worked tirelessly. She spilled the thumbprints of metal onto the table every night, and together they scooped them like favorite crumbs into their readied, bird catcher palms. From there, they tumbled the symphony of coins into the open mouth of the jar with a secure lid. You see, there was a big rose studded fabric chair they were saving up for, and by the close of the story they were bound for the furniture store. They bought that luscious rest of a long forthcoming fortune with their savings. They put it in the back of a pickup truck and climbed into it together as a helpful friend drove them straightaway toward home. Tonight my girl will dress for the prom in black miniskirt wearing flashy shoes to offset the rainy spring air. She will pin a boutonniere of two white calla...

What of these jagged mornings. Two men pull the ropes  from east coast and southwest to settle their mother's estate  by telephone. My daughter builds an energy efficient house in miniature on her bedroom floor as confidence flags for the day's history test; knives and scissors hidden everywhere under cardboard. Yesterday having eaten too much sugar, I rise with a headache and neck like a warped board. The dog dreams a heart attack in the chilly shadow of the 8 a.m. study. Her belly breathes a snare drum of staccato yelps. For these minutes the mourning dove's calling is overridden with traffic streaming like water that I cannot hold back. I walk the hallway with my fingertips on the walls as if braille were the surrender. Signal to knowledge of what will arrive next. 'tis the season of concrete and hammers. Taut wire will hold us together. Press down on the tongue and respect one another.

By yon bonnie banks, And by yon bonnie braes, I'll drive the edge of this earth where Ahead is destination and fight is erased From my heart, the sky as compass To the other side  where forgiveness is  A signal and the squat trees Oh! ye'll take the high road and I'll take the low road, Hold my tongue which instead may be  Merry f or my love resides on this edge And the edge breaks open to sight Into  diamonds as horizon Softening like these innocent Bountiful mountain  clouds

Having heard W. S. Merwin read last night I was taken especially by the magic in the whisper of the image in the poem he read entitled "Vixen". Here it is to recall that, the animal of that sounding/seeing: Comet of stillness princess of what is over        high note held without trembling without voice without sound aura of complete darkness keeper of the kept secrets        of the destroyed stories the escaped dreams the sentences never caught in words warden of where the river went        touch of its surface sibyl of the extinguished window onto the hidden place and the other time        at the foot of the wall by the road patient without waiting in the full moonlight of autumn at the hour when I was born        you no longer go out like a flame at the sight of me you are still warmer than the moonlight gleam...

Lately an imperfect necklace of deaths hang on our doors. Passage of a wheelchair-bound mother of a friend after the slow immobilization of her muscles. Then, my mother's friend who resembled a sprite, skinny bird, wore only pastels and whose subtle Texas drawl made for the sound of an extra grandmother especially when she shared her interpretations of my teen daughter.  Finally, just three days ago, my husband's mother slept her way into her final rest, essentially alone in Philadelphia, "no longer engaged by America" my husband guessed. What is that like, the disengagement? the untangling from a life?  My mother-in-law rarely seemed content unless she was reading a decent book or listening to a wise piece of music on the radio. She once typed us letters on the stationary my husband had printed for her and sent as a gift. Across the top of that cream colored paper, we had placed quotes from Shakespeare and Dickinson, one or two lines to stir the reader's ...