Smorgasbord

The table groans: herring three ways, smoked salmon, hardtack and rye bread, beet salad and pickled onions, meatballs simmering in the crock pot, ham and the sharp tang of cheese. Laughter and talk fill the air, escalating as the pot of glogg reduces, and as my guests make merry, I remember my heritage, my grandmother’s smorgas, the relatives drawn from miles around, the children at the children’s table, my mother’s face pink with happiness.

It seems fitting, somehow, today is her birthday. Skaal, Mom. Skaal.


Peace...

Baking Pulla

The cardamom
smell from the baking bread
reminds me of fingers
bruising leafy herbs
before the sun beats
too hot,
butter melting


Peace...

end of a day

Tiredness thrums,
thoughts and words jumble
all the day swirly-whirly
like maple seedlings
helicoptering
on a spring breeze.


Namaste...

Hand

He stood on the corner
by the 7-11 hands held out,
one gloved, fingertips cut
out, the silk white
against his ebony wrist,
the other palm bare and honest.

He asked, close to baritone,
“Spare some change?”
I gave him my stock answer,
wishing this once I truly
did own a quarter or two
to press into that hand
of grace, to earn his blessing
“beautiful” left in my wake.

Howl

This morning
treading down the stairs
before the sun rose,
the house cast dark
as a starless night,
a hole to never,
a page filled with
black pastel,
until I turned
to the kitchen
and through the window,
the moon, luminous,
washed the rest
of the world
in pearly splendor.



Namaste...

Before Going Home

Sitting in the car
in the cold dark,
a moment before
turning the key
sleet hits the windshield,
faint chimes.


Namaste...

My son the angel

Sunlight filters through the sanctuary window. When my teenage son passes, the light plays on his face and billowing blond hair in such a way that, for an instant, he appears ethereal.

Peace...