51 years

       If you were still here.I would remind you of the hot, heavy and humid June day when you were finally born-fighting the forceps that yanked you, almost against your will from the womb.You loved these sweltering days-you were born to thrive above 90 degrees, I believe. You were a heat up the grill and ice down the beer kind of guy; call everyone up and go camping at the lake kind of man. My son. My first born with almost a twin-like hold on me…Oh, I miss you. Yes, I know you have been gone already fifteen years. Yes, I have moved on-it’s just I drag your smiling spirit along for the ride. There are so many things, I would like to sit on the deck and discuss with you. The world as it is now, which is nothing like the world you left behind. Politics-I imaging we might bump heads on that one; the concept of Face Book and Instagram.                                                                                 I checked the freezer for Elgin sausage and fat chicken legs; I will barbecue inside because I never  liked the weather this time of year. I did hear it might rain, too. I might make a chocolate cake and you would eat it all and then rub your full stomach and SMILE.                                                                                                                                                      I guess that is what I miss the most, my son, your smile; how the smile started in your eyes before making its way down to your mouth.  That is how I remember you, how I always see you in my mind’s eye.                                                                                               I hope where you are there is a lake with a great place to swim, and cook for your friends and family; where the weather is to your liking and there’s a smooth spot to pitch your tent. Happy birthday, Steve.

A Longing for Thoreau

I hold fast to my walking

stick as I leave

the beaten path to follow

my own trail

Into only partially familiar woods.

There is a part of me that

hunkers down

Here, within the gloom of autumn

or later, the promise of spring

Tilt back my head

Shake my mane and

Sniff the air.

I crouch beside the creek flowing here, simple and without a care.

A glimpse of a whitetail yearling

Frozen in the tangled underbrush

The soft call the cardinal sings to his mate

The reflection of us all in the stream

In this late November dawn

Nirvana

the coyote

the cardinal

the whitetail

and me…

 

©Nancilynn Saylor

November 2017

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Picking Roses for Romeo

 

 

A holiday! Free from the office madness

still awaken early, as is my habit;

birds not yet aroused.

I put on coffee to perk and my Christmas slippers

step outside to see what this dawn will bring.

 

The fragrance of roses

draws me down the damp, muddy path

still wet from yesterday’s rain.

The very best roses are at the very corner

of the house

where the pathway ends

and the deck begins 

When Romeo returned

after decades being away

he transplanted them from our neighbors yard

who did not care for Roses

and was pleased when I started tending them.

He offered them to us when he was moving away-

I said yes. 

My Yes

meant Romeo had to dig and pry them up

from their current space

repositioning them in our backyard.

I remember

He was not as overwhelmed with joy

as I. 

Now,

these many years after,

they flourish,

a testament to his care of them

and love for me.

This morning I snip a few of the finest specimens

tucking them into four

brilliant glass vases…

just to make him smile

when he

awakens.