Grandma’s Lullabies

Some say  her old rocker
had an aura, a sort of halo.
Others know it was the many coats
of lacquer rubbed to mirror finish
by my grandfather
that gave the chair its light.

Lullabies rose up
from somewhere deep inside her;
perfume of new spring lilacs
drifted through the window.
The passing of so many years
has not dulled my senses.

I know that room
like the back of my hand —
feel its pulse as my own.
The cabbage rose wall paper
will never grow outdated. It ages
as she did, gracefully into fade.

Hearth Fires

Gabled roof faded red to gray,
tiled moss curled
against a century of winds
whistling to get in..  Thyme
and vines compete to claim their space.
Trod bare from barn to kitchen door
the yard wears its foot print paths
like welcome mats.

My mother’s grandmother
once tended wood-fed fires
that warmed this hearth and hearts
for miles around. I take a faded apron down
from hand hewn wooden hook, begin again
to knead the dough, to bake the bread,
to tend the fires that light our lives
and make this house a home.

A Taste of Winter

Ah, the joy that we savor
when snowflakes gaily gather
to share a taste of winter
with every waiting child
no matter what their age.

Seasoned perfectly this year
the nip is in the air;
anticipation heightens
in correlation with the mercury’s descent.
Isn’t that the way it’s meant to be?

Scraping ice and shoveling walks,
no more than inconvenience
when considered in perspective
of eyes aglow with dreams
of Christmas.

The top hat on the closet shelf
is fairly dancing with delight,
ready to share the magic
that will turn a solemn snowman
into a lively Fred Astaire.

Tree limbs are laced with frosty ice,
the meadow’s wearing fleece
of white and
the kitchen’s wafting cinnamon
makes  this a savory winter’s night.

By the Winter Sea

echoes the absence of summer;
no cricket,
no insect hums,

just the song of the winter sea
venting uninhibited
by thrum of wings
or splish-splash of fish.

A crescent moon
nestled atop the hill
speaks the color of clouds
in tongues

of dun sand
and the gloomy red
of a sun
gone down;

a somber scene
but for the shifting dunes
and the ever whispering song
of the sea and the wind.

Autumn Flings its Cloak Across the Field

Autumn flings its cloak across the field,
cornstalks preen in diamond glaze,
robust pumpkins, symbol
of the season’s bounty, anticipate
Thanksgiving’s celebration.

Overhead, a whirl of starlings
curtains the sky with cacophony
and opalescent wings.  The blue asters,
blooming diligently, take little notice
but the roses give it all away.

The pendulum has swung;
last vestiges of summer turn shy
beneath their frosty façade.
Flaming leaves fly
as autumn holds its thrall.

So soon, wintry days
will claim the stage. Snowflakes
will waken the child in us again
as windows capture our breath
of awe, but for now,

Autumn flings its cloak across the field.