Lunar Landscapes

Blue Jay

you came to sing outside my window
early this morning
such a loud shrill caw
haven’t seen you in so long
years actually

but today you stopped
associated with something from my past
you perched yourself in the tree
and brought to mind,
dear brother
must be thinking of me

Over Coffee

There’s a lot to be said over coffee, a lot of things.  Decisions made.  Declarations stated.  “I love you’s.”  “I hate you’s.”  “I’m sorry.”  A lot of things.  Lives have changed over coffee, maybe some for the better, maybe some for the worse.  There’s a lot to be said over coffee.

“Oh, why don’t you go, it couldn’t hurt.”

My best friend’s statement for everything, “it couldn’t hurt.”

She continues, I hold the phone to my ear.

“We’ll hang out.  Have coffee.  See who’s there,” but I’m still stuck on, “it couldn’t hurt,” and I’m not so sure.  Lot’s of things in life hurt, lots of things.  Sometimes it’s something we’ve done.  Sometimes it’s something we haven’t.  Sometimes it’s unintentional and sometimes not.  Sometimes we’re just in the wrong place at the wrong time and sometimes it’s just best to mull it all over, over coffee.

“Okay,” I say and I hang up the phone.  I’ll mull it all over, over coffee.

So, I jump in the shower.  I do my hair.  I put my best lipstick on, then a turtleneck, skirt, and boots.  My best friend loves the boots.  Says guys really go for the boots.  I look in the mirror.  Take off the boots.  Put on a pair of clogs and then, I’m out the door.

I’m on the sidewalk now.  The air is crisp.  I wrap my arms around me, “for warmth,” I tell myself.  I pass lots of people on the way but I try not to look at their faces.  Instead I look down at their shoes and I wonder where they’re all going.  I wonder where they’ve all been.  And I wonder how many of them have mulled it all over, over coffee.

And then finally I arrive.  Like so many that have come before me, like so many that still have yet to come; the coffeehouse, and I enter.  I look around but my best friend’s not there yet, so I head for the counter.

The girl behind the register smiles, I know she has to; it’s her job.

“The usual,” I tell her, out of habit, but of course she shrugs.  She’s new.  She doesn’t have a clue what “my usual” is.  Annoyed, I tell her.  She listens, asks for my name then writes it on a cup.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Next!” she yells and I move on.  Down to the end of the counter where I wait with all the rest.  I look around.  I wait some more.  I look around and again, I notice the people.  I watch them.  Inconspicuous, I observe.

Then, from behind the counter a man calls out my name.  I step forward and he meets me there.  “You want a lid?” he asks.  I shake my head, “no thanks,” I say.  “I’m staying.”

“Well, enjoy!” he says

“I will,” and wrapping a sleeve around the cup I find a cozy chair.  I sit and from here I see everything.  I sip my coffee and funny, it doesn’t taste at all like “my usual.”  I peer into the cup and it doesn’t look like my usual either and I think, “it must have been the new girl.”

“Oh well,” I say to myself and take another sip and you know what?  It’s sweeter than my usual and I think to myself, “maybe sweeter’s better than usual.  Maybe usual’s not always best.”  And just as I begin to mull it all over, over coffee I hear my cell phone ring.

I dig through my purse.  I find my phone.  I answer and of course it’s my best friend.

“She can’t make it,” she tells me.  “Something’s come up.”

I ask, “is everything all right?”

“Sure,” she says, “but I can’t talk now.  I’ll call you later.”

She hangs up.  I hold the phone a moment longer, only silence in my ear and I can’t help but think, “how odd,” and then I shrug.  I shake it off.  I put my phone away.  And then it occurs to me that perhaps a lot of things in life are like that, “odd.”  That perhaps sometimes when things don’t always go the way we think or planned we’re just left to soak in the way it turned out anyway.  And I glance into my coffee cup, I take another sip and as I’m reminded that, “sometimes usual’s not always best,” a voice from across the room catches me off guard.

“Yeah, I’ll have a Cafe Americana,” and then he adds, “Grande.”

And it’s so familiar, so identifiable.  It carries across the air and hits my ear like a favorite song.

In an instant I look up and the first thing I see are his shoes.  They move to the end of the counter.  They wait with all the rest, a pair of Dr. Martins, maroon.  Not many guys would wear maroon.  No, most would go for black.  And I think how long has it been since I’ve seen those shoes?  Six months, maybe seven.  It used to be I always knew where they were going, but now, I don’t have a clue where they’ve been.

Then from behind the counter I hear the man call out his name.  He steps forward and the man meets him there.

“Café Americana?” the man asks.

“Yeah,” I hear him say.

“You want a lid?” the man asks.

“No thanks,” he says.  “I’m staying.”

“Well, enjoy!”  the man says.

And I hear him say, “I will,” and then he puts a sleeve on his cup.  He turns.  He stops.  He sees me, and it’s so hard to be inconspicuous when someone sees you.  It’s so hard to stay unnoticed.

I take a deep breath.  He takes a deep breath.  It’s awkward.  Uncomfortable, and then finally he shifts his gaze.  He glances about and it’s obvious he’s looking for someone, someone else.  Perhaps someone who knows where his Dr. Martin’s have been, perhaps someone who knows where they’re going, and then his eyes come back to me.  He steps forward, unsure, and then he explains, that he’s there to meet my best friend, or so he tells me.

“Really?” I ask, perplexed.  “So am I, or… was.”  And then I add, “she just called, said she couldn’t make it.”

“Yeah?” he asks and then his cell phone rings.

“Just a second,” he says.  He pulls it from his pocket.  He answers.

“Hello?”  a pause.  He listens, then to me, “it’s her,” he whispers.  He listens some more, then into the receiver, “okay.  Sure.  Bye,” and he hangs up.

“She said she can’t make it,” he says.

And then I chime in, “because something’s come up?”

“Yeah…” he says, and then it takes but a moment, maybe two, and then it hits us both.  He breaks into a smile and I break into a smile, and then I think, “he always could make me smile,” and then we laugh.

“I think we’ve been set up,” I say.

“I think you’re right,” he says.  “But you know what?”

“What?” I ask.

“I’m kind of glad,” he says.

I glance into my coffee cup, then, “so am I,” I admit.

He sits.

He notices my clogs.

“Nice shoes,” he says.

“Oh, thanks,” I say, and then he ads, “maroon,” and he says it so matter of fact.

I nod.  Smile.  Glance away, but only for a moment and then I’m back.  And I can’t help but wonder, can’t help but think that perhaps this is our chance to finally stop mulling it all over, over coffee.

Copyright 2009

The Weight of the World

Tonight the moon peeks in my window,

but I only feel the weight of the world.

For gravity has wrapped it’s arms around me,

refusing to let go,

and pulls at my knees.

The discomfort quiets me,

to where I am reduced to a state of silent worry.

Surely I am in disrepair.

What was meant to support me

now choke holds my blood supply,

and I am barely left standing.

Oh, such a gloomy night.

Must I feel so sorry?

Must I wonder,

“and how many more will I endure?”

Hoping,  not many.

The moon attempts to cheer me now,

and reminds me,

though not quite full,

he soon will be,

and so will I.

But oh,

how I wish I were there.

A Better Day

Laid up on the couch with a bad knee I can’t help but recall a better day.  Oh, how easy we take things for granted: to run, to jump, to dance!  And I wonder, “how long will that be, until I can dance?”  Where a new bike I have yet to ride still sits in my garage.

I talk to a friend on the phone the other night, “you will,” she assures me and then she regales me with one of her latest adventures, (because she is my adventure friend) that I might live vicariously through one of her stories. Today though, I relive some of my own.

Of summers on Whidbey Island, at least five years ago now, back when I use to be a runner, and I enjoyed the solitude of running, the scenery, the sounds.  To get lost in the beauty around me, and the endorphins, once kicked in, seemed to only heighten my senses.

Running, I was grateful to be alive.  I felt small but I also felt cherished, running a favorite road of mine through the prairie of Ebey’s landing and no one there but my Creator above me.  Here, I’d breathe deeply, lungs filled to capacity, and for some reason this brought clarity and I would listen.

I would listen to the wheat fields that followed beside me, the wind whistling through their sheaves, and I wanted them to tell me they knew where I was going, each foot as it fell in time with the other, each sheave as it would bend and sway, but as the road stretched out before me this never came: the answer, and instead it was just a song they sang… “keep running, keep running, keep running.”