flood

there were signs
in early May we drove home between sheets of rain
the road hardly visible though it was clear
our tires cut through a surface of water on the road

early that May day an afternoon of
cliff diving at Lake Travis
an evening at the Varsity watching
La Cage aux Folles

once home rain returned heavy and stormy
with our power knocked out
we moved to the front porch to watch
traffic along Lamar

rain a constant we noticed cars
‘bottoming out’ as the came down the ramp on to Lamar

we wandered out to help people out of their cars
had we thought we’d be able to help move their car

water on Lamar continued to rise
two feet, four feet, six feet
Lamar Boulevard was kayak-able
water rising to our feet, step back
moments later submerged again

before the night was over, cars floated by
sights I’d only seen on television
night filled with rushing water

but when the sun rose
Lamar clear of water
filled with debris from the night before
large plate windows forced out by
water’s power

 

missed you this summer

but will see you in a couple of months.
When I’ll peer into your room in early morn,
hope the sound of the coffee grinder interrupts your sleep.
So you’ll join me for a cup before the house wakes
to talk about all those things we’ve missed catching up about before
we hurry off to the responsibilities of our day.

later we’ll find ourselves in the kitchen
wine glasses in hand, Mom which pan
should I – oh that one is fine
chopping and stirring
let me get in there for a second
mac and cheese, roasted brussels
a salad with all of our favorite flavors
the colors of the dish

supper’s done
wine glasses in hand
legs folded up into our chairs
so much more to say

thank goodness for national elections to call you home

weather

On a morning in March I visited my classroom
to gather items from my classroom.
Not imagining  time to be long, I watered
and left my plants on the bookshelves by the windows.
I discovered that during a pandemic I can get along
with fewer decisions. What to expect is clearly not
the lens we are using. The structure of a calendar
opens in new ways allowing space for personalization.
More for me in my life than the anticipated role of
personalization in my newly forming classes. I became
a practicing writer, as I led my students through weekly
essays preparing for an AP exam. One writer leading
many writers. I moved through April losing a favorite musician,
Passover for two, and no clear vision of what might be next.
What to expect is clearly not the lens we are using.
Before long it was May with traditional end of year landmarks
but without the structure of the days, of the weeks. Eleventh graders
waking up and coming together before logging on to a 45 minute
exam from the comfort of more than 80 bedrooms around the
city outscoring the students of the past in rows of tables and chairs
in a gymnasium. What to expect is clearly not the lens we are using.
Summer melted into a Dali-esque landscape until I accepted control
adding a workout to my days of walking dogs and writing.
School schedules as varied as the elastic ties I use to tie back my hair
came and went. I planned in fits and starts fed by antiracist ideas
for revisioning curriculum narrowing a focus. Online instruction
seasoned my thinking. Books took turns on my nightstand
filling my head and days. Tomorrow our faculty meets for the first day
to plan and learn about an upcoming year. What to expect
is clearly not the lens we are using.

 

Worry

I’m really not a worrier
Though things crop up
At night
That nag at me beyond reason.

Those things crop up
And fill my head with dread
They nag at me beyond reason
And leave me restless lying in my bed.

They fill my head with dread
As I worry how much longer
And leave me restless lying in my bed
Wondering if those words will be repeated.

As I worry how much longer
Minutes tick by
And I wonder if those words will be repeated
Wish they could just be laid to rest.

The minutes continue to tick by
While I wait for sleep
Wish the words would just be laid to rest.
Am I really not a worrier?

 

 

a gift for Anna

A younger version of myself setting out to be an adult,
lived far from family, happy to be adopted by some.

Shared Thanksgiving and Christmas with open armed hosts,
received with small acts of grace and appreciation.

New versions of familiar traditions shared with me,
curious to experience familiar a new way.

Dressing baked outside the turkey, smooth and creamy
finished with gravy.

Christmas not Chanukah, gifts for everyone from everyone,
unnoticed who’s family.

Long ago a thank you note sharing my sentiments with a wish for recipes,
followed up with small pages of handwritten copies.

And when the granddaughter married,
a perfect gift came to mind – her grandmother’s handwritten recipes framed.

A memory preserved in glass given,
with the thought of connection of family and sharing.