So you know how you wake up at, say, 3 or 4 in the morning because something is bugging you…then lay there hoping sleep will drop by again…and it does…about 5:57am, heavily weighting you to the bed until 6:57am. So you’re still in your pajamas when you take your daughter to school at 7…and you know darn well how the gods have waited patiently for you to try this again since you swore you wouldn’t after the incident in the parking lot that you witnessed bleary-eyed in your thin nightgown and hiking boots five years ago. The creepy officer who took your statement probably didn’t even include it in the report even though he made you repeat it several teeth-chattering times…which was way worse than the smirk you got from the coolest-teacher-in-the-school who was on drop-off monitor duty this morning. He will out you later today in a subtle, dry-witted way in the teacher’s lounge and all the other teachers will laugh and think he is even cooler than he was before—if that is possible. You will be invited to join a fundraising committee to save face…which is futile but you have your daughter’s reputation to think of so you’ll go. You’ll wear too much make up, boots and black jeans but your purse will still be brown. You will wonder who noticed when you wake up at 3 or 4 the next morning.




it is never just one bloom but
always a lilac of moments
bursting over a flower bed
slippery driftly petaling
peonies hibiscus still
unconscious of poppies
only pinks… greens & blues
holding onto those colors
…straddling the one
thing I knew for sure
about springtime
even if I didn’t
know it then

© 4/18

Nightbird at Blood Moon

Nightbird at Blood Moon

Last night, Kit and I went to the Full Moon Drumming, which was particularly wonderful during this, the Blood Moon. There was a big turnout. Instruments of all kinds were spread out on the ground for any newbies (like us) to borrow—fully engaged participation is the unspoken expectation. Interspersed were various art supplies that had presumably been used to put up promotional posters about the event, at least that’s what we figured the markers, scissors, etc., were beside the tambourines and maracas. Yet there was a tin can, fly swatter, and a knife sharpener, so who could be sure?

I’m not a musician but I can keep a beat, at least I thought I could. Then the tattooed guys with pony tails started beating rhythms out of the congas, snares, steel pans and African drums that were powerful and primal. Everything I tried to sync to that skewed highchair-baby-with-spoon. As soon as the first session winded down, I switched to cow bell and spent the next session trying to keep Will Farrell/SNL images out of my mind.

Maybe the fourth or fifth “drum conversation” in, I was finally getting the hang of it. I had settled at last on the triangle because…well, I just didn’t think you could mess up on the triangle. It always sounds nice. After a while, Kit gave me a look that inferred otherwise.

“Play something different,” she hissed.
“This is the only song I know on the triangle,” I replied.
“No, I mean a different instrument…anything…maybe that skein of yarn.”

She looked around desperately then handed me a glitter-glue stick, but I just tuned her out.