still

for my dad, who's 84 today

when I am still
I can still smell
that beat-up truck
with sticky red seats
and the radio knobs that wouldn’t work
so I could fiddle with them all I wanted

driving home from school...

and when I am still
I can still smell the mockingbird house
we visited…catawpa tree’s shed
its wiggly worms…
sun beating down on a rotten red porch

craning my head, trying to see more between the boards

when I am still
I can still smell
your working skin
underneath green broadcloth…yellow rice
steaming on the stove and cornbread
muffins just like I like…with pea-juice on them

and the taste of the alabama dirt they grew in

when I am still
I will smell
your Sunday smell…and my daughter’s
little voice telling you
how sweet it is and how sweet your are….
in her princess world ~

when I am still
I will smell my daddy’s hugs….my father’s kiss
light on my lips
no matter where I am

growing, going…

still.

ephemera

startled by the gathering flight

of all those black birds chatting in the trees

memories stirred of falls gone by

and the breezy dusty rustlings overhead

I looked up and remembered

some things I have collected:

a six year old girl paused in that same spot

noticing all those birds and a little afraid

of their multitude and drop dead cries

seeking comfort in lockets of my hair

and the smell of the red reindeer cap I’m wearing ~

my red-haired niece with miniature hands

inspecting something for a first time

a crumbling leaf’s texture or maybe some small stone

turning it over again and again

in curiosity with a hint of recognition ~

that first curious kiss in the space no more between

but closed now….and yet so wide open

with wanting pouring in first tasting my I love you’s tongue

and the beginning of something hard, but worth it…

the quickening butterfly that was savannah

as I lay in bed one chilly morning

praying it wasn’t yet another dream

memorizing every small delightful thing

in that glorious autumn’s day including ~

swarming grackles laughing at me…