Hotel Del Coronado
She unwraps the newspaper
and lifts it from the box,
palm trees and red rooftops promenade
across her beloved watercolor.
Back in her early twenties,
she caught the bus to meet sailors
in that ball room, and danced
all night to big band music.
Pictures of royalty and movie stars
lined the hallways, behind
brilliant frames. Chandeliers
hung in the lobby.
There, she sunbathed on the Silver Stand
while naval ships passed by.
Now, sea scents fill her mind,
as eighty-year old fingers trace
the glass.
Staring at the ragged palm
outside her desert home,
she squints her eyes--and pretends
she’s in San Diego.
Sara Orange Tip
You could have folded like a paper
triangle, and slipped naturally
into death’s pocket--
if you weren’t so beautiful.
June’s mustard fields and streams
still wait for you. Verbena’s purple bloom
has missed your touch. Who captured
you in mid-flight
and pinned you to this board,
forcing you to fly throughout the ages
with your elegance exposed?
(Published in Flutter Poetry Journal 2008)
Reappearance
What happened to the girl
in grey knickerbockers
and a red Norwegian sweater
who tossed ski poles
down on a dare
and danced like a snowflake
over moguls?
Who climbed every tree
and monkey bar
that had the impudence
to stand taller than she?
Who traveled Europe alone
to count ducks in Bruges
pick flowers near Zurich
find a Frenchman
and dance at Tivoli?
Today I found her-- laughing
inside a middle aged woman
who drove over a tall bridge
with great apprehension.
(Published in Boston literary Magazine 2008)