I wake
wondering
if Jeb will ever
memorize
eight plus six
fourteen
he soon will be
and he won’t
care anymore
if I
watch him
attempt
skate board tricks
no more
hearing
“Mom! Ok, watch this one!”
right
now
I can stand
by the plumeria tree
observe
his goofy foot
push offs
and ramp jumps
while my head’s
half-way between
tomorrow’s oil change
and
tonight’s dinner
oh
the wake up call
from an eight year old
mom, watch this
friends and family
around the fire
stomachs full
our heads
tilting
toward night sky
all the celestial bodies
so vast
I have to stretch
remember
remark
remind
“this is no ceiling”
It’s not that there’s nothing to say. It’s just that anything worth sharing is still bubbling about inside my creative well.
In the interim, there’s the standard, go-to: weather.
That inescapable presence we all share in common, no matter our race or creed.
It’s a humbling force, one that here on Kauai has been heavy-handed as of late. Hot, steamy and sticky. 75% humidity. No wind.
So this morning, no poetry. Just a hankering for some precipitation. A photo found from the summer to remind me when the skies opened to bless us in a shower.
Today, art turns to the weather. A respectful request. My version of a rain dance.
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