Fall 2016 With Adelyn James

The trees are colors, yellow, orange and brown,
The leaves shine in wetness, the air is warm, tomatoes still ripening
ever so slowly.
Nine month old nieta, grasping the umbrella handle in her
amazing, tiny, perfect hand.
What gratitude I feel to the Goddess when I look at the perfect fingers of
my nietas.

We walk down to the chicken house and say hello chick chick chickees.
She watches them intently, registering every movement.
I think she knows them from another plane which she has
recently arrived from.
We drop pinkish tomatoes into the pen, and stand while they
peck eagerly at the juicy seeds.
She touches the round smooth fruits like a ball,
yet no, she is my smart nieta, she senses this lovely bit of color in our walk
is more cool than a toy.
She draws her tiny fingers across the taught skin to know this thing we have just picked
from the yard.

We walk the road, and soon
her little sparsely haired head droops into sleep.
My feet turn up the hill to home.
I try to extract her from the Bjorn baby pack, with out awakening her from her
much needed nap.
She folds softly into her baby sleep.
I gather my things
to head back down the road
Being with what 'is'.

The Last Thing

         The Last Thing ~ 

                                                                            For LaVonnne, two years gone

The last thing you did before
I left you and said goodbye,
the thing that one never knows is the last -
You borrowed my sunglasses while driving me to Miami airport
because you had
 misplaced every other one you had.
(this would not work if they had been prescription)
I left them there with you in Florida, my cheap sunglasses, my only pair.

You in your work truck, driving the easy macho way you always had
laid back, in control.
Just like you drove your Mom's maroon '65 Impala in high school,
 even sometimes when we played hooky from biology.
Flipping the steering wheel effortlessly, me watching with awe,
 I had not even applied for my permit.

You always knew where you were going,
you always had a  plan or 2 or 3.

On that last visit we floated in the warm Atlantic (my first dip in that sea)
We sat in some neighbors swimming pool telling our funny stories and drinking cheap beer.
We got to hang like girlfriends of 37 years.
We got to laugh and yell on a jet boat ride
to watch illusive alligators to which one was never supposed to feed marshmallows
which your odd boyfriend had.

We got to sit at night and talk about our parents.
You loved my parents, especially my distracted Dad.

I was your maid of honor, we got stoned while we dressed,
after I helped you arrange the somewhat awkward head piece you had bought,
and then I held you and talked you down when you cried
about how your brothers were treating you on you wedding day.

Now you are gone, a sudden heart attack,
you fell and left us just like that.
It was so like you. No fancy explanations needed.

I can't believe it isn't possible
to call you up and gab like we did every few months
to keep in touch.
No facebook crap, we did the real thing
We talked on the telephone.

Thank god I took the east coast Amtrak down to Florida in 2010.
Thank god we had the last laughs, and I got the last chance
to loan you - my romping wild friend - my sunglasses
to help you see better on the wide freeways.
The last thing I could do for you in person,
for the last time.