Medford 2024

You didn’t ask for it, but I would give you
A slice of life on this sacred ground
So that you, too, can touch pure joy.

A midsummer twilight
On the front steps, teabag dangling from the chipped mug, cool bricks under your feet.
Dragonflies wheeling above, bats in hot pursuit
The late sky shifting from indigo to violet to that particular shade of dark dark blue that you
only love because it means a multitude of stars.

Winter
There’s no snow yet (again), but it is cold, cold
And your flower-scattered duvet is warm, warm and
Covered with purring, stretching, snoring cats.
You try to read the last chapter but your eyes are closing.
So instead, you reach over and turn off the beautiful bronze lamp nestled next to the giant
begonia in the window
And surrender to sleep.
The great horned owl calls mournfully in the woods.

Spring flowers dazzle in the bright sunshine.
Green tendrils push through the earth and snake around the fence as you watch.
Work in the garden beckons.

Homemade fireworks set to bad soundtracks.
The children that you love running their dusty hearts out across the grass
While their parents drink IPAs and lounge contentedly in the heat

I could go on and on and on

But I think you know by now that the creek in the backyard where the herons stand sentry
Is a wellspring,
that the pollen here is tinged with magic as it floats through the air on those golden honey evenings

You will be forever grateful that the house beckoned to you
More so that you said “yes,” and stepped into your life.