At twilight I went for a walk on Hallowed eve.

Seams in the pavement slipped under my steps

as I passed shaded houses

tucked in blankets of grass.

The afternoon shadows draped misted sweaters

along angled roof tops, window panes and drain spouts.

The seat appears to be wooden, maybe 4x4 oak. No chance for it to split over years of raucous  play or empty sway in rain, snow, or summer sun. Secure with knotted ends of thick gnarled rope, the swing is strong enough to withstand endless hours of flight.

When you were small
your hands were always dirty,
grubby from the ground
you crawled
stalking the bugs
you caught to satisfy
the appetites of the snake
or rat or
rescued bird
you kept for company in your bedroom.

She interrupted my morning plan.

Instead of wiping down woodwork and watering plants,

I watched Thomas the CHOO! CHOO! Train,

read fairytales forever and ever,

her black satin curls tickling my nose

as she clapped her hands and wriggled in my lap.

The roach inside of me does not FIT.  

Stripping my nerves, this

wretched, fuming intruder

objects to every move I make,

encroaching upon my daily pleasures,

dragging me back to its crypt of

spider scum and dusted death. This

insidious insect got in the wrong tree!

A single leaf,

a golden medallion

luminous in the starry sky,

bids farewell to its arbor.

It quivers a bit in the rustling air -

a dew drop from early morning past

glistens in the twilight mist.

I wanted to try something new

so I parted my hair on the side

one summer Saturday when I was fourteen.

The small act of self-government

was like my first baby step, wobbly, worrisome,

and very courageous.

My braids had held me back I determined,

so to advance my adolescent adventures,

I looked in the mirror and decided

to change the style of my hair

and borrow my Mother’s black bathing suit with

36-C cups and a girdle tight fit.