Fierce Logic

A radio reporter spoke reverently about Beethoven's piano sonatas; I could see again my grandfather's living room. We sat, much too young for this, listening to him play his grand piano. I wish I could hear what I remember seeing. I know now this music demands study to get beyond the surface sounds, inside the fierce logic, to know it. Just like my grandfather.

Just Tired

So little sleep last night it's not worth adding up the minutes, I feel what it might have been like to be three. Storms of confusion, euphoria, even tears pass through like a parade. Deep in there is the reasonable me, knowing full well that I could say to every blip, I am just tired. Like a sage in no other way than this, I know I'll feel better in the morning.

Home Body

Wiping clean the corners of our home, I remember making it ours. I pulled up the old, soiled carpet, hours stretched out on this floor with pliers, fighting long-toothed staples one by one. My brutalized fingers rubbed every quarter inch of this now revived wood. The more I grab hold, cleaning or restoring, the more this home feels like part of my own body.

Market Season

The first chill strong enough to see it as we exhale, we are picking out tomatoes and swiss chard. It's too early for the crowds, the familiar faces that turn this market into a social event. It's all business this morning. The farmers have brought almost everything, anticipating the end of the season. Sweet potatoes, kale, eggplant; we fill our bags while we can.

House Crazies

Embarking on the day, we left the house warm and peaceful. Then some strange madness set in. Scout the dog tore on the back door, desperate to get in; Billy the cat tore on the front door, desperate to get out. We came home to splinters and fallen blinds. Hours later now, and everyone is sleeping. As if the nervous terror ghost got what it wanted and left.

Word Cakes

All day, submerged. Long strings of words pulled out of me for this or that purpose. I muster the focus. Like applying a suction cup to my face, I've said to myself before. Keep your eyes front and center, look ahead, pour. I am a filter or an easy bake oven; taking in requests and specifications, mixing the mix, applying heat, spitting out perfect little word cakes.

Head Screws

I forget about early October weather. I only remember the air clearing and cooling. But it storms for a week, and in my head a crisis of tightening that takes away my reason. Six days, six headaches. The wind blows the still-green-leaved trees, shaking them like dolls. Something's turning the screws on the world, and I can feel every inch of lost circumference.