Bird in
Flight
It was
mid-July when you left.
Everything
was carefully packed, including
the
violin

Aunt Betty gave you. This morning
I snagged my
linen dress on a
rosebush

near the walkway. I remembered
how
you swept past me in your brown

shawl, and the swallows we fed in
Capistrano
when you were young-- I marveled then,

how they always
found their way home.

Is it
February?

Today, while driving, I forgot on
which
road and in which direction I was
traveling.
Right then,
the month and year
evaporated
from my mind. In passing
bougainvilleas
near the freeway, I found myself
begging
them
for direction; and so I made my
way home.

You turn on the water
and hum over
the dishes.
The kettle lets out it's half-whistle, and

then
you walk into the living room with a
magazine and a
cup of tea. As I reach
for my crochet hook and thread, our
tabby takes up her position
on the arm of my chair.

As I set the
rocker in motion, two legs
dangle like furry pendulums: back and
forth, back
and forth-- Her eyes stare ahead;
occasionally
she purrs. I wonder how
knowledgeable she
is;
does she know this is February?
I can't
be certain of anything--but
your
presence.

White
Flag

Out there, left of the pier,
an
undertow swirls--most people
don’t even know about it. And here,
this is
my favorite spot, by the flat boulder.

Around the pilings mussels cling
to tarry
poles as waves shift, back and forth. I feel
the damp morning
sand soak into my jeans.

I read your note the other day.

From
behind the large sloop’s sail
in the horizon, a seagull appeared--
I
thought it was a white flag,
then decided,
no.

At the
Pier

Sea gulls perched on the pier
rails
as the sun took her evening bath.
Passing restaurants on the
boardwalk,
we stopped near the live crab tank.

Stacked side by side,
six deep, they
stared through the glass with blank eyes.
I convinced
myself they felt no discomfort.
Still, an eerie sadness permeated the
area.

Today you were worried about deadlines,
and said harsh words to
me. We sat silently
in our small office, back to back.

Perhaps tonight
we will walk on the beach,
then go back to stare at the
crabs.

Karen's Bio

A Whisper From
Wenatchee

As breezes draw in from the sea and

transform
wind chimes into a xylophone,raindrops
catch the
crown of my swaying palm.

I’m making bread-- the way grandmother
did.

Soon my home will smell of whole wheat;
I’ll remember spring
in Wenatchee,
marbled skies,
apple butter sandwiches, and even my

cousin's piano tunes floating beyond the
orchards.

On
my patio, geranium pots brim with
water; a few birds
dart beneath an
oak as the storm moves
further inland. I roll the first bite of warm

bread around
in my mouth, settle in grandma’s old
chair and
hear her whisper--you forgot
the caraway
seed!

Perceptions

She
eagerly anticipated my arrival.
In her mind she pictured an infant with
brown hair and dark eyes; but I was born
blond and
blue.

She longed for a daughter to hold tight
and prattle over,
someone to enthrall as
she turned each story
book page. I was
fidgety and didn’t like
sitting on laps.

Later, she spent hours
making frilly
dresses, painstakingly
sewing together girly colors,
adding
flowers with ribbons to match-- When
done, I told her
they felt scratchy.

She praised my brother’s behavior, saying
he
was
a sensitive boy, thoughtful and easy to
please.
Somehow, I
thought I was her favorite
child.

Copyright © 2007
Lavender Isis. All Rights Reserved.

Poetry
by
Karen
Kelsay