The world is full

Library patron - "I'm looking for the poem that begins - 'the world is full of a number of things'.."

Me - "I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings."

She stared.

I grinned. "Robert Louis Steveson, 'A Child's Garden of Verses." My mother quoted them to me all the time."

That small poem, like countless others, reside somewhere in my memory because my mother's mind was layered to the top shelf with verse. In her one-room schoolhouse they had few books. Thus, the blackboard's contents went from slate to composition books (in true Palmer script of course!) to mind. And there they stayed.

And as I was the fourth of five children, Mother had little time to read to me, but she accessed those shelves of memory and offered Longfellow, Whittier, Stevenson and all her school-day poets as she cooked and cleaned and ran the household.

I mourn the passing of memorization, because a mind is a wonderful thing to google.

More than that, I mourn her.

Catching Up

Nothing graces
a Saturday morn
like a long-line chat
with a long-time friend.

Too much time
elapses
with people you love
hovering on the edges
of silence.

You need a spoken
yes.

Now

When I was expecting our first child an acquaintance at the baby shower said, "Whatever else you do as a parent, enjoy the moment. Don't fall into the trap of saying - I can't wait until he rolls over, sits up, walks, talks, goes to school, marries etc. Just enjoy fully whatever stage he's in." And for some reason those words penetrated my 28-yr-old brain. I learned very quickly that the tides of anticipating the next development step pushed you along unless you were of stern will. But I think I courted the moment. And rewards for it continuously broke like waves over my toes at the beach - invigorating, dynamic, satisfying.

Forty-plus years later I have to conclude that happiness is like that, period. If you're always waiting to cross the street you're sure to miss the park bench on this side where you can sit and watch a slice of blue sky.

Blight

A roadside rest area on Rt. 15 south is an oasis.

A monsignor from the nearby Mount St. Mary's created it. The traveler stretching his legs looks down on a little meadow with a pond that blooms with reeds, lilies, herons, red-winged blackbirds, life. In the distance the Catoctin Mountains frame a white steeple of a distant village church. And always silence. Only the birds converse.

I stop on my trips home from PA. It is a moment to reflect and let the stillness erase the clutter of my soul. This Friday morning was the same.

But moments later when I turned back to the center for the restrooms, there was the sign on the door, "Please report all suspicions of human trafficking....."

Ah, yes. That too.

November gray

When the north wind blows
'Tis time to seek
warm, soft, long undies
to hug the length of you
and comfort.

Like an old friend.

Respite

The night after
the sprawling bounty
of Thanksgiving,

We walked into our quiet
lakeside restaurant

to dip porcelain spoons
into the steaming fragrance
of pho.

Renewal

Early Sunday morning
Brahms violin concerto
saws softly through the week's clamor,
felling me with its
soaring
solitary
splendor.