The wind is a troupe of spiders
Hang gliding on dazzling strands of hair
Like they do
Single web strands tree to tree
Reminding fall year after year
Standing stiff, shy, awkward
Young legs bare
Folded anklet socks.
Hands like mine
Under white gloves
Picking at nail beds
For comfort and alive
The smile revealed
Glee had won!
They leaned against
A new car
Prop a top a hill
The Perfect day
Fall crisp aired North Dakota.
An engagement captured
Not a hint of the usual
Smart aleck sarcasm
In his happy Mickey Rooney eyes
Much before my time
No story of mine
Where did the coldness start
walls clang to a locked steel garage
A word, an opinion, judgement, a look
The fridge door, or the creak of a stair
Would they like my hair
They hate my hair
Whispering about the butchered man
Above me in the kitchen
as though I stand deaf on the stairwell
Fresh from a flight with pheasant hunters
Grandma sat silent
Wet eyes and sad frown
Blue and shorn close
Aphasia blocking the tones
This trip was very hard
Sobriety was three fresh
I creeped to the basement corner
Clinging to the corded phone
Coming out of the wall
Absorbing the wisdom of a friend
Leaving the table to
Cry in the powder room
“Don’t cry over pinochle.”
The mirror answered
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