Peeling Eggs

She could peel anything. Potatoes, boiled eggs, carrots – you name it.

Come Thanksgiving she was firmly planted at the edge of the table, removing skins and shells. Revealing the interior and not just with the food. She found a way to pare away deceits and fabrications, expectations and heart ache. When a problem was laid before her, be it stubborn vegetables or marital decisions, nothing was ever as difficult as it seemed.

She simplified. Understated. Promised change and hope.

I got one good lesson in before she died. Peeling eggs – it can only be done right if they are boiled properly. An improperly boiled egg would still taste good, but it won't look pretty unless it's done right from the get go.

Step One: Place uncooked eggs in a pan of cold water.

Step Two: Bring the contents to a boil, then immediately remove from heat.

Step Three: Set aside eggs, still in hot water for at least twenty minutes.

Step Four: Submerge eggs in cold water several times, then refrigerate.

Helpful Hint: Older eggs peel easier.

Dandelion Summer

(A picture book in the makings)

     On the last day of summer, Charlotte and Louis went for a bike ride. They rode their bikes together everyday that summer. This was the last day before Charlotte and Louis would start kindergarten. They were both nervous, so they needed a day of sun and fun. Off they went on a grand adventure. They pedaled and pedaled. They went faster and faster. Past the willow tree they went. Past the frogs who “ribbited” a hello. Past the creek and the railroad tracks. They kept pedaling and pedaling. They went faster and faster. Finally, they reached the spot that Louis picked out to show Charlotte. A perfect spot to spend their last day of summer. There was a hill full of...

     Dandelions!

     Louis got off his bike and ran up and over the hill. He kicked at the dandelion seeds and laughed as they floated up, up and away. Charlotte picked two dandelions and skipped over to Louis. She handed one to him and told him to make a wish. Charlotte huffed one big huff. Then, off floated all her dandelion seeds like little umbrellas in the sky. Louis puffed one big puff. All his seeds flew away but one. He tried again. Charlotte told Louis the seed must be scared. Louis agreed but he said the seed had to fly away. How else would it become a big, yellow dandelion? “It's true,” Charlotte thought, “change can be good.” She leaned over the last lonely seed. She breathed in deep, then let out one long stream of air. Off the seed flew, up into the sky, until it faded into the clouds and out of sight. Charlotte decided she was ready to go home. So one more time, they pedaled and pedaled. They went faster and faster, until they arrived home. Now, Charlotte was ready for the first day at her new school.

Letters to Ghosts

Inky blood fills the paper
with the unspoken
apologies, confessions,
silent misgivings
and lost hopes.

I reread your letters,
reread ... reread
looking for something
that I might have missed.

I trace the curve of your script,
my finger follows the trail
and lingers,
waiting,

waiting
for more.

Instead this must be enough,
your spirit spilled on paper
suspended in time
marked with earth.

Transient Eyes

Dense air hangs, waits
to unleash a torrent, winter clings
to the heart of those dark clouds,
chilling all that passes through
falling.

Deep rumbles shake
loose the waiting winds while
a grey sky flickers with
flashes of color and scent
dissolving.

A dim purple smell,
billowed pastel blooms,
wither and fall lightly
make way for the crisp and
bursting.


Lush grasses, interrupted
by bashful violets and waves
of proud swaying goldenrod until
they reach their fullness, now
fading.

Glowing dusk slips behind the hills,
caressing each blade and limb
as it goes, foretelling another,
more beautiful flourish
approaching.

One still and solemn
breath before the winding exhale,
now the time is long past for
change steps softly,
transforming.

Parasols of Memory

Transient eyes no longer see
the wisps of white that float along.
Miniature parasols of memory.

Fully blown seeds soar free
to awaken following a scope yearlong.
Transient eyes no longer see

the two figures visible only faintly,
hoping to prolong
miniature parasols of memory.

Sharing what they knew to be
moments in a reflection lifelong,
transient eyes no longer see.

Away the cold winds carry
a forgotten sigh, a silent song.
Miniature parasols of memory

The images now only foggy
that lived in reminiscence, so strong
Transient eyes no longer see
miniature parasols of memory.

Your One Wild and Precious Life

Here, Mary Oliver's words haunt and inspire me:
"Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?"

Every breath, every moment is singular.
This terrifies me. This amazes me.
My soul stands in awe.
Why was I afforded this gift?
This spark of life. This unending love.
I am forever grateful.
I am forever indebted.

I strive to be worthy.
To live fully.
To love deeply.
To take every chance.
To relish my one wild and precious life.

This moment will never come again.
It is here, begging to be lived.

Here, Mary Oliver's words simply inspire me:
"When it's over, I want to say: all my life I was a bride married to amazement."

The Great Collide

Here fiction collides with reality.
Once thought, never the two shall merge
But what was once just a piece of the plot
A means to move the story along
Is now inescapable. Inevitable.

She was in love. In love with the pain.
A connection. An emotion.
Heart wrenching, but pure.
Fascinated by the fiction.

Tempted to taste. To see.
Thirsting for knowledge.
Eve's protegee.
Can ignorance truly be bliss?

Fiction no longer.
This can't be true.
Desperation exists on film
In the pages of books it's found
But not here.
No, not here.
Keep your Good and Evil.
This knowledge is too much.
Revelation gives way to despair,
Such an unexpected sequence.

Forbidden Fruit,
So much more than a story now.
What's a high without some lows?
What is joy without pain?
Maybe if Eve knew, just maybe,
She would do it again.