For The Unsuspecting

Dear Readers, with Mother’s Day this past weekend I had planned to write a poem to my mom thanking her for all she has done raising myself and my siblings. But the poem that arrived on the page is very different. My stepfather, of seventeen years, passed away a year ago on May 9th. I have definitely been thinking of him as the anniversary approached and that inspired the following poem.

For The Unsuspecting

This poem can’t make the snow stop falling or take away the cold. It won’t warm your bed at night or make breakfast for you in the morning. This poem can’t change a tire, change the oil or replace a spark plug. It can’t find a new lover for you even if you stand under the Flower Moon and recite it three times backward. This poem cannot make the bed, wash your hair, sweep the floor or stir the soup. It won’t make the clouds cross the sky any faster or the night feel less dark.

This poem is a small engine that fails to start. It is broken, rusty, a piece of metal without any use. It doesn’t haul water. It doesn’t cut grass. What it does do, is shred itself beneath the yellow roses. It blends with the soil and rots away. When you think it has completely disappeared and left your life, it blooms on a sunny day in June.

A Homecooked Meal

(Betty Crocker image)
The poem I've written today was inspired 
by the writing of Jimmy Pappas.

The Secret Ingredient

For a simple dessert I wash fresh raspberries
to remove any trace of Covid-19.
I pop one in my mouth, let water squish with the flesh
of the berry on my tongue.
Now I make butternut squash soup with produce purchased 
on the first outing in a month:
fresh butternut squash, leeks, onions and potatoes,
unsalted butter and farmer market carrots.
A granny smith apple, peeled and cored
adds a hint of tartness.
After it simmers for awhile I add fresh cream,
a sweet childhood delight, that swirls rich and smooth.
The table is set for many guests.
Please join me.  I have prepared a bowl 
especially for you.