Porches are made for little feet
And tiny fingers playing,
Painting watery lines from a red bucket,
Momentary art on the wood slats.
Porches are made for see-y’all laters
And moonlight talking,
First light watching,
And maybe, lazy napping cats.
Porches are made for time-tested love,
Decades of friendship and weathered wood,
Rocking chair hand-holding on, letting go
Goodbyes and welcome mats.
Month: August 2019
A Thought of You
PoetryThoughts of you are colored glad
Like cantaloupe dripping down my chin;
Warm like sunlight on honey.
Thoughts of you are colored brave
Like blue suede and a soldier’s uniform.
Thoughts of you are colored sweet
Like Paris bakeries and lilac on an evening breeze,
And music, soft.
Thoughts of you are colored true
Like the unrelenting green of a Ponderosa pine.
Thoughts of you are colored bright
Like a pearly shell button poised to catch a glowing gleam;
Wonderful, like an alpine lake or a ripe tomato, soft with morning dew.
If delight were a color, it would be a thought of you.
One about Words
Poetry, UncategorizedPondering “Hey”
You know, “hey” is an interesting word.
It can be attention-getting. “Hey, over here!”
Or friendly, “Hey, Luke.”
But, hey, it could also be casual.
It can be all manner of things, in every imaginable hue.
A three-year-old whine or Dad’s eyebrows up, “remember what we talked about…”
But here’s the contrast that got me thinking—
“Hey” can have the most cutting edge to it,
Or it can be the softest whisper, a hand on the shoulder,
“It’s all right.”
A simple word, it doesn’t mean much,
So it can mean a lot.
It’s all in the tone, the face, the heart.
Just a thought.
—
Written in Late July—
Words piling up like thoughts in a traffic jam.
Waiting on the light to change.
Be home soon.
Legacy in Sweat and Stone
UncategorizedTwelve or fourteen greats ago, I don’t remember, a man named Louis looked to land across the ocean, and he dared to claim it–a place for him and for sons and daughters yet to be born. Fourteen in all.
August of 1647, his feet touched the shores of New France. Among the second wave who journeyed from France to the fresh forests of Canada, Louis Houde followed in the tracks of intrepid pioneers and did what any good settler does. He built.
Stonemason. Father. Visionary.
Laying stones, he helped build a city. Giving land, he helped build the church. Raising sons, he helped build French Canada.
And Madeline stood by his side.
—
On other shores, maybe some of my ancestors twelve or fourteen greats ago boarded ship by force, not by choice, and helped build other people’s houses under a southern island sun where the French sounds Caribbean.
Harder to trace back on that side, except in Abuelita’s veins and maybe in her Mama’s family name. It’s a story of hard work done between the sea and the sky, of love and loss and a tear-filled eye. Of backs half-broken, and nearly the will, but justice dies never, and God is good still.
Endurance, this legacy hidden in our veins–a love that suffers but never complains. Thank you for building, though I don’t know your names. Thank you for living in spite of the chains.
Silent sitting with you
Love Like Steel, QuotesThere’s something sweet about wasting time when you know it’s not going to run out.
The Cottage, two sketches
Outdoors, Ponderings, Uncategorized(written 6.26.19 while gazing at a watercolor on my desk)
Thatch flecked by ocean spray, dappled with sunlight through the cotton-bottomed clouds holds a shield over our heads. We cut it from the marshy edge–wiry grass on permanent tilt from the ocean’s wind. Plucking up reeds with knife and scythe we paused to ponder. Watching the shorebirds, we marveled at life beside our bundles of living things now marked for death. We’ll loft them high above our heads; they’ll keep us warm, their wet will be our dry.
There’s a life in their dying, a purpose, a plan. Held between the dew and the smoke of the hearth, held between the sun and the cool of the stone. A haven, a border, for a span. And then return to the marsh from whence they came. To serve another purpose.
And the grass springs up green again.
Stones stacked tight against Atlantic gusts. Holding up strong on the outside so all is soft and close within. We splashed them white in late spring, laughing as we worked, brightening the landscape with our steady cottage home.